


If I Just Lay Here (Would You Lie With Me?)

by sidium



Series: Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Recovery, Steve Needs a Hug, but he's learning to stand on his own two feet, emotional breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidium/pseuds/sidium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's a part of the future, now; but first he has to let go of the past. (Complete)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Tony looks up from his computer screen and glances at the clock on the wall. He starts calculating the math in his head and realizes he's been in the lab now for over a week. He's slept on and off, and while health shakes do technically count as food, the idea of being social isn't a bad one. Especially when you have five other people, scratch that, team-mates permanently living with you. It's an odd thing to get used to. Not necessarily a bad thing, but perhaps it's too soon to tell.

Tony hits a few buttons, saving the final details on an upgrade to the thermal regulators in the suit, and tells JARVIS to start his task of powering down the equipment. He rubs his eyes, and by the time he's made his way over the to the elevator, the lab is lit only by a few overhead flood lights. Tony sighs and hits the button to take him to Steve's floor.

It's kind of funny, Tony supposes as the elevator descends; after the whole Chitauri invasion, it took about two weeks to clean the city up. Well, most of the city anyway. Some buildings had been destroyed beyond repair and some roads were still not safe to drive on, but thankfully, Stark Tower had not been one of the entirely ruined buildings. While repairs were made, individual floors had been customized to fit certain people.

Tony was rather proud of his work, thank you.

Hawkeye had the highest floor available, and the biggest windows anyone could safely install. Unlike the other floors, Hawkeye's floor was not divided out into specific, smaller rooms, except the bathroom. Everything was laid out in wide, bright, open spaces; no walls cutting anything off. The only thing that suggested a separation of rooms was the transition of floorings.

Natasha's floor was cozy; overstuffed furniture and high bookshelves almost everywhere. Tony had noticed how much Natasha had liked to read and with a little more investigation, he knew all her favorites, now nestled together on her dark wooden shelves. It was comfortable and warm. Two things he knew Natasha valued most.

Thor's floor was, basically, as close as Tony could get to ancient Norse decor. He figured it was pretty close, having done quite a bit of research on the subject, but when Thor stepped off the elevator and started laughing uproariously, he knew he'd failed. However, Thor was laughing because it was so perfect, and he told Tony as much, while bear-hugging him. Tony's spine still hurts when he stops and thinks about it.

Bruce's floor was minimalistic. It had more than enough; television, books, a huge plush bed, but everything was sleek. Books tucked away in cupboards, no knick-knacks sitting around or anything cluttered, nothing too brightly colored, either. Soft browns and earth tones everywhere.  Tony knew that Bruce appreciated the space, the offer of home, but he still liked things simple and neat. (His new kick-ass lab was also clean and beautifully organized, but that's neither here nor there.)

Steve's floor was harder. Thor had been from another planet, and his floor had been easier to figure out. Steve was a hard person to read. Tony wasn't sure what he liked or disliked. He wasn't sure if he should do a throwback and make his floor the 30's incarnate, or try to update Steve on more modern living spaces, or, fuck it, do everything in red, white and blue and let Steve's head explode from the patriotism. In the end, it was kind of a combination of the first two options. Simple wooden furniture, nothing too bizarre or expensive; his king-sized bed covered in a blue plaid print. Tony thinks he hit the nail pretty well on the head with that particular floor, but he'd never know for sure.

Somehow, despite the individualizing, Steve's floor had become the communal floor. No one knew exactly why, but everyone always seemed to end up there at some point during the day, which is why he's on his way there now.

As he steps off the elevator, he can't help but notice how quiet it is. Absurdly so. With everyone home (a rare occurance), the floor should've been a noise riot. Not set on mute. At first glace, he sees no one, but further investigation leads him into the kitchen and dining room, where most of his odd little gang are hanging around awkwardly. Thor is leaned against a counter, looking more than a little confused; Natasha is staring out the window, from the table she's sitting at with Bruce; and Clint is standing at the sink, washing dishes. Not one of them speaks a word as he enters. No one even acknowledges his presence.

Then he realizes who's missing.

"Uh, what's going on?" He asks to no one in particular, "Where's Steve?"

Somehow, the tension in the room manages to get worse. "Great timing. You just missed him." Clint says, sarcastically, placing a rinsed glass in the drainer next to the sink.

"What do you mean, where is he?"

"I dunno," Clint says, "Cap just kind of freaked and ran off."

Tony honestly can't remember the last time he was this confused.

"All right, would someone care to tell me exactly what happened, _now?_ "

"We were eating lunch," Bruce says, finally looking away from his glass, "Steve was kind of quiet, but everything seemed okay, then someone asked him a question and he just suddenly started screaming at everyone and stormed off to his room."

"Why, what did you guys do?" Tony asks. He doesn't mean it accusingly, but Steve's not one people would peg for angry outbursts.

"Nothing. Everything was perfectly fine," Clint says, raising his hands at the sink in a gesture of relative innocence.

"The last thing anyone said to him... Clint asked him to hand him a glass." Bruce says with a slight shrug of his shoulder. "I don't know."

"What were you guys talking about?" 

"We were telling stories." Bruce said, finally looking at Tony, "Natasha was talking about an old family pet, Clint was talking about a friend he had to broke every bone in his body,  and Thor was telling us about Loki when he was younger." 

Natasha speaks before anyone else gets the chance to. "We were speaking of families." She says quietly, "We reminded him of things he's trying to forget." Her eyes never leave the window.

A few moments pass by in awkward silence. Finally, Tony rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Okay, well, score one for the home team for being insensitive jerks," he says, and Clint stops and glares at Tony. "No offense, but you know it's true. It could've just as easily have been me."

Clint goes back to scrubbing a saucepan.

"I'll go talk to him." Tony says, moving to leave the kitchen. A hand grips his shoulder suddenly, and he turns to see Thor, who'd been completely silent the whole time, looking at him with deep concern. 

"Steven made it clear in his outburst he wishes to be left alone," Thor says, letting go of Tony, "Are you sure it is wise to seek him out?"

"Trust me, right now, being left alone is the last thing he needs." With that, Tony turns and makes his way to Steve's room.

\-----------------------------------------

Tony approaches Steve's door and knocks lightly. There's no answer. He knocks again. Silence. He reaches down and turns the knob, the doors opening easily.

"See?" Tony says quietly to himself, "Doesn't really want to be left alone."

The light of the mid-day sun illuminates the room beautifully, and the first thing Tony notices when he walks in is how Steve's room looks. Or rather, how it doesn't look. It doesn't look like anyone ever moved in. There's no personal objects anywhere, nothing hanging on the walls, nothing sitting on shelves, no clothes on the floor; nothing that would easily distinguish this room from a hotel room. Tony frowns slightly. It's been three weeks since Steve moved in. He figured there'd be art, books, shoes thrown in the corner, something, some piece of Steve's personality beginning to embed itself in the room, but no.

He steps over to the bathroom door and knocks softly. This time, there's an answer.

"Go away." Steve's voice is flat and toneless.

"Nope." Tony says, brightly as if it's good news, "I'm staying."

"Tony, please, just go away." This time there's a little bit of pleading in his voice and it makes Tony's chest twinge with guilt, just a little bit.

"I said no."

Silence. Tony hesitantly tries the knob but the door is locked.

"I just want to be left alone." Steve says through the door. "It's not much, please."

"I know," Tony says, leaning against the door, "But honestly, I think leaving you alone right now would be a bad idea."

No answer.

"Just not gonna speak and hope I go away?"

...

"It's okay, you don't have to talk to me. I've been known to talk enough for two people. Well, occasionally more than two. Two dozen at least." He hesitates, waiting to see if Steve will answer. "I'm not going anywhere so you might as well just come out and talk." Tony steps over to set the tablet he's been holding this whole time on the bedside table, and steps back to the door.

"C'mon, Cap."

More silence.

"Okay, I'll tell you what. I'll sit and talk and you can come out when you feel up to it." Tony sits down, shoulder leaning up against the door. "It's just you and me, you know," He says, aiming for casual, "nobody else is around."

Just as Tony's starting to worry, Steve speaks again.

"Please, Tony, I'm begging you, just leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that." Tony says, slightly ruefully. He wishes he could walk away and leave Steve in peace, but he knows how much more damage leaving him to wallow in his own emotions could cause than it could actually help.

So Tony talks.

He talks about the latest projects he's been working on, the new thermo-regulators and the other miscellaneous upgrades he's noticed needed to be done since the Chitauri; he talks about a conversation he had with Rhodey about everyone moving in and how Rhodey thought it was the most fucking hilarious thing he'd heard in forever. He talks about how he thinks Pepper's birthday is soon, and he should probably buy her something, but the last time he tried, he was four months off, so maybe he better double-check that first. He talks about a meeting he has to attend for affiliates of Stark Industries, and he shouldn't have to go, because it's Pepper's company now, not his, but apparently someone insisted he be there. Frankly, he'd rather jab himself in the eye with a screwdriver than attend another business meeting, but unless he wants to incur the wrath of Pepper, he'll be smart enough to go.

By the time he's finished with that particular rant, he glances at his watch and he notices it's been two hours, and maybe it's blind optimism, but he decides to venture into a dangerous topic.

"You still there?" He asks, completely expecting silence. Steve probably fell asleep a while back or he's still pretending his not there so Tony will finally go away. He's surprised when he doesn't get words, but rather a soft knock from the other side of the door makes him grin as he realizes. Steve's been sitting on the other side of the door listening the whole time.

"Natasha told me what they were talking about when you... left." Tony listens but there's no answer. "I understand, you know. Maybe not to the extent you do, but I know what it's like to lose family, and I know what it's like to pretend you're okay when you're not."

Steve says nothing so Tony continues, "I'm not saying I'm the pinnacle of mental health, but if you wanted to talk..."

Tony almost falls over when the bathroom door suddenly opens. He quickly gains his balance and stands up. Steve is standing barefoot in jeans and a soft, worn grey t shirt, and he looks so utterly defeated and tired, Tony wants to wrap him in blankets and hand-feed him chocolate chip cookies. He resists the urge to say as much. Tony can't help but let his eyes glace down at Steve's wrists and he's silently overjoyed that the skin there is as smooth and flawless as ever. It was a stupid thought, really, in retrospect, but it was still a small relief.

"Tony," Steve says, the tone of his voice reflecting his exhaustion, "could you please, just leave?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Why not?" Frustration is seeping into Steve's voice, and it's making Tony feel guiltier about staying, but he knows it's the right thing to do. He may not be an expert at social interactions, but he understands sadness. He understands how being alone can make everything feel a thousand times worse, and as bad as he feels about staying against Steve's wishes, he'd feel worse if he left Steve to suffer alone.

"Because, the last thing you need is to be alone." Tony says, resolutely. Steve stares at Tony for a long moment and his eyes cast downward as he seems to simply give up. He moves past Tony, and pulls the covers back on the bed. It's still light out, but Steve seems to completely disregard this fact as he curls up in the bed and wrap himself in blankets. He pulls a pillow over his head, and that's that. Tony knows escape when he sees it. That's okay. Tony stands and stares for a moment, before he walks over to the window and pulls the navy blue curtains. The room isn't dark, it's only four in the afternoon, but it's significantly dimmer.

He takes the tablet off of the table where he placed it and sits with his back up against the side of the bed. He opens the schematics to a side project he'd been tinkering with on and off for weeks. The room is completely silent.

Hours later, Steve wakes up enough to remember the whole ordeal, the violent wreck of sadness hits him square in the chest again and he presses his face into the pillow, willing himself to open his eyes and be back home. He opens his eyes, and he's not home, he's still in the same place he fell asleep, and it's not fair. He glances at the clock, 1:27am. He's been asleep for eight hours and he still feels drained.

His eyes adjust to the darkness just a little more and he notices the faint white glow on the ceiling. He raises up just enough to see Tony asleep, sitting up against the bed. Steve sighs. Steve lies back down, and sighs deeply, closing his eyes. He wishes he understood why Tony was there, and he wishes more that Tony would leave and let Steve in peace. He knows Tony won't. Trying to decide, he finally gives in.

Reaching over, he shakes Tony.

"Hey, wake up." He jostles him, gently. It takes a few shakes, but Tony's eyes finally open with a 'wha-', and he's rubbing his eyes, and trying to stand up. Before he can say anything, Steve pulls the covers back and tugs on Tony's hand. He can tell Tony's asleep enough not to really understand what's going on, but tired enough to just go with the flow. He toes his shoes off and lies down next to Steve, pulling the covers up.

There's at least two feet of space between them, but it feels closer than that somehow. Steve watches silently as Tony quickly falls back asleep.

Steve sighs again, wondering if he'll be able to persuade Tony into leaving tomorrow. He feels like there's a weight on his ches, and he takes a few deep breaths, every muscle feeling sore and aching. He knows he's about to collapse into another bout of sleepy exhaustion, as though his body's unable to bear the weight of his lonliness. He shuts his eyes and tries his best to ignore it.

 


	2. Chapter Two

When they told Steve about the Super Soldier project, they told him about how it would remake his entire body. They told him how it would cure his illnesses, if it worked. He'd be stronger, faster, healthier. He'd be able to do all the things he'd longed to be able to do since he was little and collapsed into an asthma attack for the first time. They told him all about the process, exactly what would be happening. They told him it would hurt. They told him it'd be worth it. They told him so many things.

No one told him about this.

No one told him crashing into the ocean and waking up seventy years in the future would be a possibility. No one mentioned that. Not once did anyone warn him he might have to know what it feels like to wake up and be in a world almost completely different. No warnings about he could lose everything, that he would feel the ache of loss deep in his bones, radiating through his skin and wearing him down, a little more every day. Until he collapses into himself, just like his asthma attack, except this time it's his heart that can't keep up, not his lungs.

He stares up at the ceiling, stares at the texture of it and lets his mind find shapes in the random patterns like a man-made version of cloud gazing. It's all he's got the energy for. Tony's snoring softly next to him and he idly wonders how long it's been since Tony's slept in a proper bed, not that futon in the lab. Steve sighs and sees a slightly misshaped dog silhouette next to the sort-of plane he'd spotted earlier.

He'd glanced at the clock a little earlier. He doesn't know exactly what time it is now, but he knows it's well-past the time he would normally get up and go for a run, but he can't even imagine getting out of bed at this point, let alone any kind of physical activity. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do or what he even feels like he can do, so he doesn't do anything. He shuts his eyes and concentrates on his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, almost proud he's surviving from one moment to the next, and somehow simultaneously disappointed at the same time.

A few minutes pass and Steve finally sits up and climbs out of bed. It's either that or pee all over himself. He might not be feeling 100% but he'll be damned if he's that pathetic. He finishes his business and opens the door between the bedroom and the bathroom. Tony's still sleeping soundly. The sun's shining through the cracks between the curtains and the room is still significantly dim. Steve looks around the room, noting the blank walls and bare furniture. Suddenly, Steve can't breathe. He can't be in that room anymore and he can't breathe. He all but runs to the elevator, his head starting to spin, and asks JARVIS to take him to the lobby of the building. His hands are shaking, and his deep breaths still feel like their catching in his throat. He watches the numbers on the display drop; 31... 30... 29...

Instantly, Steve realizes the stupidity of what he's doing. The last thing he wants is to be around people. With his back pressed to the wall, he slides down to sit with his arms around his knees.

"JARVIS, take me to the roof." The elevator stops, and when it doesn't reverse its direction, Steve feels like his heart has stopped, too.

"JARVIS?" He asks, voice shaking slightly.

"I'm sorry," the AI responds, with almost real regret in his voice, and damn Tony for making him so life-like, "I'm not sure that taking you to the highest floor of the building would be a wise idea, given your current state at the moment."

"My current..." Steve whispers to himself, then he slams a hand against the floor as he realizes what JARVIS meant, "Dammit, I'm not going to kill myself!" He yells, unable to keep the hysteria out of his voice. his head is spinning and he knows if he tried to stand up right now, he'd fall. He squeezes his eyes shut, and he feels the elevator start to rise. He rests his head on his knees and tries to breathe. His stomach is in knots, and he's panicking. Every molecule in his body is panicking, and he feels like his mind is shutting down. He can't breathe, he can't think straight, all he can focus on his his heart beating out of his chest and the fact that he. can't. breathe.

Finally, _finally,_ the elevator stops, and the doors open. Steve all but runs off, barely taking the time to recognize the brightly lit room that used to have Loki-shaped smash prints in the floor, and he flings the door open, and feels the warm air against his face and warm concrete beneath his bare feet. He leans against a full-length window and grips his hands into fists, trying to stop the shaking. Standing in the sunlight, his breath starting to ease. He almost starts to think he's gonna be okay. Another wave of nausea hits him, and he bends forward, slapping one hand against the warm glass of the window, while the other holds his stomach, dry heaving up nothing. He can feel the burn of bile on the back of his throat and the tears leaking from his eyes as his stomach churns and surges again, sending him gagging.

It finally stops after a few minutes. Steve straightens up, and sits down slowly, back pressed to the window. The dry-heaving seems to be the climax of the situation, and everything feels like it's calming down now. He spreads his hands out on his knees and leans his head back, closing his eyes and feeling the bright sun on his face. He breathes deeply and this time it feels like he's really breathing. Like his lungs are finally receives the oxygen they were screaming for earlier.

He wipes the tear-tracks off of his face and he's pleased when he notices his hands aren't violently shaking anymore. Whatever the hell that was, it's passing. It's a small comfort, he thinks as he feels a cool breeze blow across his skin, everything else may have changed, but it's the same sun that burnt him when he spent too much time outside as a kid. It's a stupidly small thing, but he thinks it helps, somehow.

Barely a minute has passed when he realizes he's hearing noises and he opens his eyes just in time to see Tony sit down next to him.

"Imagine my surprise," Tony says, "When JARVIS wakes me up to tell me that Captain America is having a panic attack and demanding to be taken to the roof of the building."

Steve leans his head forward onto his knees. "Please don't call me that." He says quietly, voice hoarse from before.

"What, 'Captain America?'"

"Yeah, that."

"Why not?" Tony asks, concern lacing his voice.

Steve sighs and tries to ignore the knot in his chest. "Just... please. I need to not be that, right now." It's quiet for a moment before Tony answers.

"Okay, Steve." Tony speaks in a soft, soothing voice.

Steve can feel his eyes burn with tears of relief and gratitude, and he wraps his arms tighter around his knees.

"I'm gonna go ahead and assume you didn't lie to JARVIS when you said you weren't planning on killing yourself, because I kind of need that to be true right now," Tony says, borderline rambling and Steve tries to focus on him rather than his own brain that's gone from shutting down to hyperaware of remembering every detail of his life before. Flashes of his old house, his friends, Peggy, Bucky, Howard, the Howling Commandos; it's all right there and he picks his head up and turns to Tony, trying to blink away the images, "I don't know what's going on in your head, and that's okay, it's your head, and I don't know what to say to make every thing better, if there even is anything anyone could say to make this better for you. And Pepper says I need to work on my communication skill, which is probably true, so I don't know if I'm the best choice for someone to talk to but it would have to be better than letting whatever's in your head sit and fester. It's just going to make you feel worse in the long run, and then JARVIS will wake me up to tell me you did decide to kill yourself, and frankly, that's just not cool, so..."

Tony trails off and looks up from the small smudge of grease he's been rubbing on his wrist with his thumb, at Steve and sighs. Steve blinks. Tony talks faster than anyone he's ever met before and he's pretty sure most of what Tony says is more for his own amusement than anything else, but he's relatively sure Tony just asked Steve to talk to him before he decides to do anything drastic, and... the knot in Steve's chest loosens, just a tiny bit. It's a small gesture, really. Someone asking you to warn them before you try to off yourself, but... it's something.

But Steve doesn't want to talk. He's barely said a handful of words since Tony came out and it feels impossible to say any more. His bones feel heavy and he lays his forehead back down on his knees, his hands loosely gripping his ankles. The tops of his feet are staring to hurt from sitting in the sunshine for so long. He needs to go back inside. Rationally, he knows this, but he can't get the motivation to actually stand up and get moving. His mind feels blank and numb. He's been awake for less than an hour and he feels like he's been awake for three days.

But it's not long before he can't stand another moment of stillness, the restlessness winning over the lethargy; and he slowly stands up, and moves towards the edge of the building. He really has no intention of jumping, he doubts it would work anyway, he just... wants to see. He knows Tony's still worried with how quickly he jumps up after Steve and moves toward him, as though getting ready to grab him at a moment's notice.

Steve looks at the city below him. Dozens of buildings are still being repaired, even after the initial clean-up. A few were even damaged beyond repair, and they sit in stillness, awaiting to be demolished and cleared away. The city is still partially in ruins, it'll take months before it's anything close to what it was. They saved so much, Steve and the others, ironically by destroying so much. Steve can see construction workers, high up in skyscrapers, busy working to fix what was ruined. Steve feels a twinge of guilt at the destruction he helped cause, but at the same time, he knows everyone did what they had to do.

"It's broken." Tony suddenly says, coming to stand next to Steve. "It's the same city it was, but things won't be the same. Some of it's gone forever." Steve's starting to wonder if this is supposed to make him feel better. "But you know what? It's okay. It's a tough city. It's not going to be easy and it won't happen overnight, but it'll adapt. Things will get better and who knows, maybe it'll be better than it was."

Somehow, Steve knows Tony isn't just making conversation and he's not just talking about the city. It's a difficult concept, one he's not sure he believes. How can anything bounce back after destruction like this? He stares helplessly out at a torn up world and the air seems colder than it did a minute ago. Steve can't look at this anymore. He turns and heads back into the building. It takes Tony a moment to realize Steve is leaving and he jogs to catch up to him on the elevator. Steve waits until Tony has caught up, and politely asks JARVIS to take him back to his floor.

When the door opens, he steps off, but blocks Tony from following him. Tony stops mid-step and stares at Steve.

"Thank you for caring," Steve says, tired, but formal, "But I really need to be alone."

Tony's gaze turns steely and Steve knows he doesn't have the energy to fight. "Stark, please..."

Tony's face softens slightly, but he makes no move away from Steve. "I told you last night-"

"I know, but you're wrong. I just need to be by myself." Steve can tell from Tony's completely lack of movement he's not going to win. A full minute passes in complete stillness, before Steve sags and moves away from the elevator, knowing Tony is right behind him.

"I don't need a babysitter, Stark." He says, lying back down on the bed.

"Good." Tony replies, stopping in the doorway, "Because I'm not your babysitter."

"What are you, then?" Steve asks, his tone annoyed. Tony responds and comes to lie down next to him. His answer makes something inside of him ache. He doesn't know what to feel or what to do anymore. Everything is a struggle, but Tony's words echo in his head and he's not sure if they help. Two little words...

"Your friend."


	3. Chapter Three

Steve spends the rest of the day exhausted. It seems to be all his body is capable of, anymore. Like all his batteries wore out and he has no idea how to recharge them to anything significant. He remembers bits and bots of it, later on. He remembers the room being bright when he woke up for the first time after the panic attack, Tony apparently had JARVIS pull the curtains open, and the bright light had made him pull the covers over his head and groan. He remembers a plastic bottle of water, cold and slick with condensation being put in his hand and he'd pretty sure he remembers drinking it. Everything else is small flashes, like he never woke up enough to catch the details. He remembers being too hot and kicking off covers, and then too cold and wrapping himself up in them. He remembers a loud noise, like something being knocked over or dropped, but he doesn't know what caused it. He doesn't remember caring enough to ask.

He remembers noticing Tony, every single time he woke up, whether he was sitting in a chair across the room, or actually in the bed next to Steve, Tony never once left him for very long. For the first time in a long time, Steve feels a small glow in his chest, somewhere in among the dull pain and the sadness. It's a faint foreign feeling and he's not sure what he's supposed to do with it, so he tries his best to ignore it for the moment. 

He finally feels awake now, for the first time in... he's not sure how long he's been in a state of half-sleep. Glancing at the clock, which says 2:17pm, he'd guess about sixteen or seventeen hours. He's not sure how he can keep sleeping, yet still feel like he hasn't slept in days. He sits up in the bed, and feels himself zone out, letting his mind pull him back to where he wishes he was. His chest aches as his memory re-plays moments of Bucky, when they were kids. How Bucky never once made him feel weak for all his problems, and he'd spend cold nights curled up around Steve in the orphanage making sure he was warm enough to survive the night. Steve owed Bucky more than he could ever re-pay him, and instead... 

Steve closed his eyes. If he didn't open them, he wouldn't see reality, and if he didn't see it, he didn't have to deal with it. As long as he kept his eyes closed he'd be okay. He concentrated on breathing, feeling each individual expansion of his ribs as they took in air, and the collapse of them as he exhaled. He finds himself almost lost in the steady rhythm when he suddenly feels the bed bounce and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what he'll see when he opens his eyes. 

Maybe it's because of that, that he waits a moment. He doesn't know what to say. How to explain himself, or how to express the thoughts surging through his head. The memories, the moments, the people. He doesn't know how to explain how his chest hurts, or how his bones ache. It seems ridiculous and impossible. So maybe, when he opens his eyes, to the familiar face of Tony in front of him, and Tony asks him how hes feeling, maybe the impossible feeling of it all is why... he doesn't say anything. He just kind of stares at Tony for a second before he glances down at his fingers, gripped in the bedspread. How would he even begin to answer that question? How does he feel? He feels like he's dying. Or losing his mind. 

"So, that's the new thing?" Tony asks, not unkindly, smirking a little, "Not sleeping, but not talking?" 

Steve just shrugs his shoulders. 

"Okay," Tony says, leaning back against the headboard next to him, "I finished a prototype for a new kind of arrowhead for Clint. Wanna see it?" Tony picks a tablet up off the table next to the bed, the same one he had the first night. Steve nods, for lack of a better response. Tony grins, just a little and taps a few buttons, bringing up some blue-prints onto the screen and Steve waits for an explanation. 

"What I was thinking was something like a super-powerful mini-taser." He starts. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. He's never heard of a "taser" before.

Tony notices the expression.

"You don't think it's a good idea." 

Steve stares. He almost wants to talk, but even small words feel like a battle and he's not in the mood for a fight. He just pulls his knees up to his chest. He leans forward and rests the side of his head on his knees, still looking at Tony. It takes a second more. 

"Oh! You don't know what a tazer is." Tony says, eyes bright with comprehension, and Steve exhales with subdued relief. "It's a device, that delivers a really powerful electrical shock when it comes into contact with... anything, designed to incapacitate a person."

Steve furrows his eyebrows and makes a look close to disgust.

"No, no, it's used for good purposes. At least, it's supposed to be. They don't permanently hurt you or anything, they just paralyze you or knock you back a bit. Women usually used them in self-defense." 

Steve relaxes. 

"I want to give one to Clint because I think it's a good base weapon I'm surprised he doesn't already have. You know, it's an arrowhead that would be enough to knock someone out, without risking fatal damage. Which seems to me like a clever idea, but I'm not the sniper of the group, so maybe my opinion doesn't count." 

Steve smirks slightly and nods in agreement. It almost feels like Tony's words are gliding around him and he has to focus really hard to catch the actual meanings. Regardless, Tony continues on, his fingers gliding over the tablets screen, flipping the blueprint around and showing each little nuance of his design. 

"Turns out, it's much freaking harder to create one than you would think, so I've been fiddling with it for a good week... or two. Don't know, kind of lost track." 

Steve gives a small disapproving look and Tony grins in reply. They both know Steve thinks Tony spends too much time down there, but they both also know there's really nothing Steve can do to stop him, just let him know he doesn't like it. 

"However, I did finish this one." His fingers flick around and bring up another arrowhead, this one thinner and more triangular than the one before. "This one was incredibly easy and only took a few hours. It bursts into flames upon delivery." 

Steve acknowledges the words, but he can feel himself zoning again, his brain tuning out the world around him and memories keep flashing back across his vision. It makes his stomach churn, and he doesn't know how to stop it. How to bring himself back into the moment. He gives his head a shake and blinks a few times, and that seems to help, but not a lot. 

"Hey, what's wrong?" Tony asks as he reaches out and takes one of Steve's hands in his own. Steve is suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings, the warmth and strength in Tony's grip is like an anchor, and Steve curls his fingers around Tony's silently asking him not to let go. 

Tony must be pretty good at non-verbal communication, because he doesn't make any attempt to remove his hand, just lets it lay in Steve's lap. He doesn't say anything, doesn't bring any attention to the contact, just gives a little nod, and uses his other hand to flip through designs on his tablet. He explains each in simple terms, Steve's attention on him. Even if it is in silence. 

\--------

A couple of hours later, the tablet has been set aside and the TV has been turned on. Tony found a channel that was running a marathon of old Looney Tunes cartoons, and Steve had been mesmerized in a matter of minutes. He spoken a word and Tony had let go of his hand after a while, to turn the TV on. He could tell most of his rambling was going in one ear and out the other, and he decided to give Steve time to just exist, and television seemed like a fairly good distraction, as long as he didn't put something on like Jersey Shore or anything. 

And Steve seemed to relax, he curled up on his side in the bed, head resting on a pillow next to Tony's thigh, and watched Tweety bird attempt to escape from Sylvester like he'd seen cartoons a thousand times before. Tony vaguely wondered if it would really help or not, but Steve seemed okay with it (not like he was going to say anything), so he left it. He sat next to Steve, still leaned back against the headboard, and gently ran his fingers through Steve's hair.

Despite the fact it had been a few hours, their positions didn't change much. Steve had stretched out a bit, now lying almost sideways on the bed. Tony had gotten up to go to the bathroom and get himself and Steve another drink (This time it was a bottle of Naked. He figured it was as close to eating something as Steve was going to get right now). He came back into the bedroom and handed the bottle to Steve, who took it without any indication of interest, and when Tony had taken his seat in the bed, leaned back against the headboard, Steve had adjusted, so his head was resting on Tony's thigh. Steve had sighed contently, apparently grasping and grateful for any contact he could have, and Tony didn't say a word, didn't have the heart or desire to say 'no,' so he just opened his own bottle, and let his fingers tangle in Steve's hair.

Tony wondered how long it would take before he heard Steve talk again. He wondered if mutism was a step in the wrong direction, and he wondered what it would take for Steve to talk again. What he would say when he did. It didn't really matter. He wasn't going anywhere.


	4. Chapter Four

It's been over a week since Steve went silent. The days crept by, slowly and uneventful. Tony spent most of his time wondering what he should do, if he was doing something wrong, if he should leave and have someone more emotionally capable take his place, if he were doing more harm than good; and Steve spent most of his time aching. Aching for home, for Bucky, for Peggy, for something to make everything better, more tolerable. Aching for some kind of solution, and aching because he didn't have one. 

The days had been spent more or less, entirely in front of the television, a welcome distraction from Steve's silence. They stayed close to one another as cartoons played, those being Steve's favorite. Steve would lie with his head on Tony's legs or stomach, and Tony would keep a hand running through Steve's hair; or they would arrange themselves so that Steve's legs were draped over Tony's or vice versa; or Steve would sit next to Tony and take Tony's hand in his lap and absently trace the lines of his palms with his fingertips. It tickled, and once or twice Tony had to focus on not giggling and pulling away, watching Steve carefully, as he delicately ran his fingertips along Tony's heart-line, and down his life-line, making Tony's hands tingle. They would fall asleep with the television still on; Steve's head on Tony's shoulder, or Tony's hand over Steve's heart. Some part of them always touching. 

Tony had tried to expand a little, on the television front. He played some old westerns, and action flicks, but he could tell Steve wasn't really enjoying them as much, and when Tony asked him if he'd rather go back to cartoons, Steve would nod. Tony had never been more grateful for Netflix and it's seemingly endless supply of silly animations. They'd watched all kinds of cartoons, from old Looney Tunes classics, to newer cartoons, like Adventure Time and Spongebob. Steve never laughed at them, just sat in silence, appearing to be lost in his own thoughts; but that was okay. If stupid cartoons, and simple physical touch were all Steve asked of him, Tony would be more than happy to oblige.

\------

Tony picks up an empty bottle of Naked off of the nightstand, and he silently thanks whatever deity is out there for such a marvelous creation, as it is the only thing Steve will ingest. Tony tried pizza, Chinese food, pasta, fruit, and even desperately presented Steve with a salad once, and was almost, almost, proud when Steve turned it away. He had ordered JARVIS to send someone to stock the fridge with as many bottles of Naked as could possible fit, when he realized that was his only hope, and it seemed to be working pretty well. If Tony were being honest, he would admit he'd be happier if Steve ate some actual food, but since he still felt out of his depths and unsure of how to go about achieving that goal, he'd take what he could get. 

He drops the bottle in the garbage can and goes to go change clothes; Steve still asleep in bed. He had left Steve alone before, repeatedly promising he'd be right back, to go change before, and every single time he came back, he'd notice Steve had changed clothes, too; his old ones tossed in the hamper in the corner. Tony had smiled the first time he noticed that last detail. Some remnants of Steve were still holding on strong, despite his inner battles. 

He steps onto the elevator, and sighs as the doors close. 

"JARVIS, what day is it?" 

"It is currently Saturday, August 25th, 2012." JARVIS responds, and tony does a few quick mental calculations. Okay, so it's been 12 days since this all started. Almost two weeks. Two weeks and it doesn't seem like anything is getting better. Tony can feel his throat tighten as he wonders how long he's going to wait before he owns up to the fact he's not helping and gets Steve someone who can. He can't remember the last time he felt this useless. 

He estimates how long he can be gone before Steve wakes up, and decides it's past time to take a shower. He goes into the bathroom and strips, turning the water on, barely paying attention to the temperature. It's barely ten minutes before he's back out and drying himself off. The quiet solitude of the shower having done nothing for his mood. He shaves and dresses quickly and steps back onto the elevator, bare feet cold against the hard floor of the elevator, but he hardly notices. 

"Sir, I regret to inform you, Miss Potts is currently on the line and she is demanding to speak to you."

Tony sheepishly thinks back to the unanswered text messages and phone calls left on his cell phone, and answers, "Yeah, put her through," bracing himself for the tongue-lashing he knows he's got coming. 

"Anthony Edward Stark, what the hell are you thinking?" Her voice isn't the angriest he's ever heard, thank God, but it's close, and he cringes. "I have been trying to call you for days! You've already missed one important press conference, two business meeting and a public appearance at a fundraiser. You have a meeting in Beijing tomorrow, and I swear, I am not covering for you again, just because you can't stop playing with your toys." 

"Pep, would you-"

"I swear, Tony," she continues, cutting him off, "What in God's name have you been doing? You better have the best damn excuse of all time or I am going to come down there and castrate you myself." The line goes silent and Tony... doesn't really know how to answer. 

"Well?" She asks, and Tony's suddenly reminded of who he's talking to. This is Pepper. Angry or not, this is his best friend in the whole world, and his North Star. If anyone can help him right now, it's her. 

"It's Steve." He says, plainly. The elevator doors open and he steps into Steve's living room, sitting on the edge of the sofa and cradling his head in his hands. 

"What about Steve?" Pepper asks, annoyance and exasperation tinging her voice.

He takes a deep breath and just... starts talking. "I don't know what to do. He- he broke down a couple weeks ago, screamed at everyone and ran off by himself. And then he had a panic attack and scared the hell out of me, and then he just kind of... kind of shut down and now he won't even talk, doesn't say a goddamn word and I don't know what to do. I don't know. I just keep waiting, and staying and hoping something happens. That he... He's... God, he lost everything and it's like he's just starting to let himself feel it. And I keep having these crazy thoughts, these stupid, crazy, terrible thoughts that I can't stop, that he's gonna do something stupid and hurt himself. And I'm worried I'm not helping. I'm afraid I'm making everything worse. And I know I'm making your life hell right now, and I will buy you your own island in the Caribbean and do whatever it takes to make this up to you, but I can't leave him right now." Tony's voice breaks at the end, his eyes starting to sting as he acknowledges the weight of the situation, "I'm sorry, I swear to you I am, but I can't leave him." 

The line is suspiciously silent. 

"Pep, are you-"

"Yeah, I'm here, Tony." She sounds breathless and much less infuriated, and Tony slumps with relief, "That... that's a really good excuse." 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't. Don't be sorry, Tony." Tony wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn't realized how much he needed to vent at someone night now, and he's not surprised at all that it would be Pepper. He feels a familiar surge of gratitude for her presence in his life. "You're taking care of someone who needs you. That's a good thing. Don't ever apologize for that. I'm proud of you." He huffs an unexpected laugh of relief. He's okay. He's not worthless. He's doing a good thing. 

"I am sorry I'm leaving a mess for you to clean up." He says, and he truly means it, he wishes there was something he could do. 

"I'll handle it." She says, and he can almost hear her go into bad-ass professionalism mode, and he pities the person who questions her over the next few days. "You'll owe me," She says, a smile to her voice, "But then again, you already did." 

A moment passes in silence.

"Pepper, what do I do?" He asks, staring straight ahead, wishing she was there in front of him. 

"What have you been doing?"

"Just... being with him. We lie around and watch cartoons, I mean, he hasn't spoken for over a week." 

"Does he seem unhappy you're there?" She asks, and Tony can feel the ghosting of Steve's fingertips over the palm of his hand. 

"No, he seems okay with it." 

"You're making sure he eats, right?"

"Doing my best." 

"Then you're doing exactly what you should do." Tony leans his head against the back of the sofa, "Just be there. When he decides to talk, he'll let you know what you can do. Just be there when he does." 

"Thank you." Tony's not sure if he'll ever be able to say that to her enough. 

"It's okay. Where is he, now?"

"He's asleep. I left him alone for a little while to go take a shower." 

"Good idea. Don't worry about the meetings, I'll take care of them; you take care of Steve. And yourself." 

They exchange good byes and Tony takes a deep breath before standing. He slowly makes his way to the bedroom, and he's slightly surprised to see Steve is no longer in bed. In fact, he's nowhere in the room, but before he can freak out, Tony hears the shower running in the bathroom. 

He picks up the remote and sets up the next cartoon to start playing. He runs a hand through his still damp hair and wanders over to the window. The exquisite view of the city through Steve's window gives him a fantastic view of the construction crews, still cleaning up, and rebuilding. There are multiple cranes all over the city, moving slowly, carefully replacing the destruction and bringing the world back to where it was. 

Tony watches, leaning his forehead against the cool glass and letting time pass by. He watches cars move on the streets below and the people, tiny as ants moving about their lives. 

Suddenly, he realizes he's been standing there for close to fifteen minutes. And the shower is still running. He doesn't know how long Steve was in there before he came in, could've been a minute, could've been twenty, but Tony suddenly has the urge to make sure everything's okay. 

He steps over to the bathroom door and knocks, "Steve? You okay in there?" Tony's not stupid enough to expect Steve to say anything, mind you, but some kind of confirmation would be nice. He knocks again. "Steve, if you don't give me some sign you're okay, I'm gonna come in there, I swear."

The silence is only disturbed by the sound of the shower running. 

He knocks one more time. "I'm coming in, Steve." He turns the knob and steps into the bathroom, filled with steam from the shower, his feet slipping slightly on the damp floor. Tony can see through the frosted glass of the shower door that Steve is sitting in the shower, and Tony's heart skips a beat as his mind starts playing worst case scenarios of what he's going to find. He opens the shower door, and breathes a sigh of relief. Steve is fine. He's sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, but he's okay. His hair is stuck to his forehead and he's doing a fantastic impression of a drowned rat. Tony can tell from his eyes that Steve's a million miles, or maybe just 70 years, away right now. Tony consciously pushes away mental images of razor blades and blood-stained bathrooms. 

He frowns as shuts the water off, and goes and gets the softest towel he has. He reaches down and takes Steve's hand. It takes a moment for Steve to acknowledge him and a second more to register what Tony wants. He's thankful Steve goes with it, stepping out of the shower and standing on his own, closing his eyes. He's totally entrusting himself to Tony right now, and Tony takes a moment to let the enormity of that sink in. 

Normally, at this point, Tony would love to make a wise-crack about Steve standing totally naked in front of him, but saying something about the gorgeous body presented to him right now seems cruel. He bites his tongue and starts rubbing Steve down, starting at his hair and working his way down. He can't help but take in the unbelievable sight of a naked Steve, somehow completely devoid of excess body hair. (Seriously, over a week of not shaving and he's not even sporting a 5 o'clock shadow, what is that?)

He tries his best to remain detached and clinical in his work, trying hard not to think any dirty thoughts brought on by the notation of Steve's... endowments, if you know what he means (Good morning, America). But he can't help his body from responding and he tries his hardest to will down the semi he's currently sporting. 

He wipes the water drops running down Steve's face, runs the towel down his chest, over his abs. He dries Steve's personal areas, and his legs, and as he stands, he sees more water running down Steve's face. He goes to wipe at it with the towel and realizes that it's not water from the shower, but Steve's own tears that are marring his face. Tony sets the towel aside and wipes Steve's tears away with his thumbs, his fingers cradling Steve's jaw. Steve's nakedness is now the farthest thing from Tony's mind as he leans his forehead against Steve and whispers soft re-assurances. Steve's hands come up to grasp at Tony's wrists, not pulling them away, just holding them there. Neither one move, except for Tony's thumbs rubbing away the tear-tracks from Steve's face. It's a long moment before Tony extracts himself from Steve's grip and leaves the bathroom, promising to be right back. He comes back with clean clothes and helps Steve get dressed; Steve still completely submissive to Tony's ministrations. 

When Tony's done helping him put on boxers and sweatpants, he pulls a soft, green t-shirt over Steve's head. Steve co-operates, tears still slowly making their way down his face, and he makes no move to wipe them away. Tony tugs down on the hem of the shirt, but before he can move away, Steve reaches out and grabs Tony's hand. Tony looks up, and immediately loses himself in Steve's broken-hearted blue eyes, wet and glassy. Tony has the sudden urge to wrap Steve up in soft warm blankets, feed him chocolate chip cookies and whisper promises he knows he can't fulfill. Instead, he moves forward and places a kiss on Steve's forehead, then leans their foreheads back together, hands coming back up to their previous location, wiping away Steve's tears gently. 

"C'mon." He whispers, not wanting to hurt the fragility of the moment. He takes Steve by the hand and pulls him back to the bed. He maneuvers them so they're facing one another, legs intertwined, and Steve buries his face in Tony's neck, where it meets his shoulder. Tony wraps his arms around Steve, and runs his fingers through Steve's hair with one hand and runs the other from the top of Steve's spine down to the base and back up, a steady repeating motion. Tony can feel the damp spot on his shirt growing bigger, feels Steve shake slightly with each occasional sob. It's the most noise Tony's heard him make in a while, and he wishes it were something less painful. He tries to ignore the burning sensation behind his own eyes, and he'll never admit it, but maybe a few tears find their way down his face, too. How can they not, when faced with someone else's silent devastation? 

He keeps his voice steady and soothing. He doesn't make promises or tell Steve to calm down, that's not what Steve needs right now. 

"It's okay," he whispers softly, "It's okay, you're not alone, I'm right here." Steve's breath hitches and he grips the sides of Tony's t-shirt in his hands. "It's alright, Steve, let it go."

Steve sobs harder at the soft words, quietly shaking, and Tony tightens his grip in Steve's hair ever-so-slightly, and presses his hand between Steve's shoulder blades. Steve'll be okay. Tony knows it. It'll just take time. They just have to work through it together. 

\---

Minutes pass, and it takes a long time for Steve to calm down and for the tears to stop bombarding him. He pulls away from Tony and Tony lets him go. He only moves away by about foot, their legs still wrapped together, Steve's eyes still closed. Tony reaches up and wipes away Steve's tear-tracks with his thumbs, and waits. Eventually, Steve opens his eyes and they lock onto Tony's. Tony sees so much sadness, he sees right down into the broken depths of Steve's heart, and he sighs. He doesn't even know how to begin to fix this. 

Steve opens his mouth like he's going to speak, but stops. He repeats this a few more times, and Tony fights down the urge to interrupt him or encourage him. If Steve's going to speak, it'll be on his own terms, not because Tony made him feel like he had to. Finally, he gives up, and moves forward, leaning his forehead against the damp spot on Tony's shirt. 

A few minutes later, the room tense with anticipation, Steve speaks, voice quiet and fragile. 

"How am I supposed to pretend I'm okay, when I'm not?" He asks, and Tony's eyes widen slightly. He spoke. Steve finally spoke. Tony feels his chest flood with relief. Maybe there's hope for this. Maybe Tony actually is helping and Steve's gonna be okay. And maybe - suddenly, what Steve said makes it's way into Tony's brain and Tony winces.

"You don't." He says, blunt and truthful. "You don't, because you don't have to. You don't owe anyone anything. You're allowed to sit and hurt as long as you want. As long as it takes until you don't anymore." 

Steve sighs and Tony can feel him nod against his shoulder. Steve takes a long deep breath, and slowly lets it go. Tony would pay anything to know what's going on in Steve's head right now, would pay anything to know what to say. In this moment, Tony truly realizes just how worthless money really is. He's got cars, and paintings worth small fortunes. Houses most people would never be able to afford to see in their lifetime. He's got billions and billions of dollars sitting there just waiting to be spent; and he would gladly spend every penny to save Steve from what he's going through. He'd give up all of it to mend Steve's heart, but he can't. Tony's usual method of solving problems is usually to just throw money at it until it goes away, but this. This is so much different from what he knows. 

Eventually, he reaches over to the nightstand, picks up the remote and clicks blindly at the TV, until it starts playing. The upbeat theme music of the cartoon seems wrong and misplaced in the serious tension of the room, but the noise helps. It takes a little while before either of them have the willpower to move, but after a long while, do. They readjust until they're lying alongside one another, Steve's head lying on Tony's chest, pressed together from that point of contact to their feet, where they're unconsciously playing footsie, Tony's foot sliding up to Steve's knee and back down to his ankle. It's an intimate contact, and it seems to help steady Steve. 

\-----------

The day wears on. Except for the earlier incident, it would blend well with the others before it. Hours spend quietly lying together. On a few more occasions as the day wears on, Tony can feel his shirt beneath Steve's face dampen, and once he sees Steve shoulders shake. He doesn't mention it. Just keeps a hand in Steve's messy hair, and hums softly, letting Steve know he's there.

\------------

Eventually, it grows dark out, and Steve yawns, rubbing at his eyes, and pressing his face into Tony's chest. Tony just smirks and flicks the remote to shut the TV off. 

"C'mon, now, Stevie," He says, in a purposefully playful tone, "Time to sleep. Been a long day." 

Steve shoots him a half-hearted glare, but willingly moves so that they're both under the covers. 

"JARVIS, lights, if you would." The room suddenly goes dark, except for the moonlight and city lights shining in through the window, and the arc-reactor glowing blue through Tony's AC/DC t-shirt. Steve turns to face Tony, and puts his hand over the arc-reactor, eyes locked onto where the light glows faintly between his fingers. Tony watches, as Steve reaches down to tug Tony's t-shirt up. It takes Tony a second to realize Steve wants him to take it off, and he hesitates. So few people have ever seen him shirtless with the reactor. Pepper, Rhodey, and, with the unfortunate exception of Obie, that's about it. 

But then he realizes he's seen Steve completely bare naked in more ways than one, today. This is really the least he can do. He sits up just enough to pull the shirt off and toss it somewhere on the floor. Lying back down to face Steve, he watches as Steve carefully traces the lines of scars branching out from the reactor, starting from the reactor and ending close to Tony's collarbone. Tony watches Steve as he runs his fingers across the face of the reactor, as though memorizing every single detail of it, the delicate ridges of metal holding all together and the ring of metal securing it in place. Minutes pass as Steve continue his careful investigation. 

Finally, Steve seems satisfied, placing a hand over the reactor, blocking the light completely. Suddenly, Steve moves and Tony's being wrapped in the tightest hug he can remember being in. Strong arms pull him close against a broad chest, his head resting on Steve's shoulder, and somehow Tony feels like he's the one being comforted. 

"Thank you." Steve whispers, so quietly Tony almost didn't hear. He runs a hand up Steve's back.

"You don't have to thank me." He replied, lips brushing against the fabric of Steve's shirt. 

"I know."


	5. Chapter Five

Tony wakes up slowly, still entangled with Steve from the night before, and blinks at the alarm clock on the bedstand. The glowing numbers read 7:26am, and the room is relatively bright in the morning sun. Tony carefully disengages himself from Steve, who mutters under his breath and curls himself around Tony's still warm pillow. Tony grins at the sight of Captain America cuddling up to his pillow, a surge of affection bubbling up, and he fights back the urge to run his fingers through his hair, afraid of waking him up. 

Tony stretches and steps out of the room, sights set on a hot cup of coffee. He's halfway through the living room when something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turns and stares at the blanket-covered lump on the sofa until his half-aware brain wakes up enough to inform him it is, in fact, Bruce. Tony smirks and continues on. 

He grabs a cup out of the cupboard, hesitates for a moment, then grabs another, silently thanking JARVIS for starting the coffee machine while he was sleeping. He pours two cups and go back into the living room, setting them on the table in front of the sofa and moving around it. He picks up Bruce's blanket covered feet, sits down and sets them back down in his lap, and picks up his cup of coffee. The small movement was apparently all he needed to wake his sleeping friend, who opens his eyes with a startled, "Huh?" 

He picks his head up and glaces around, when his eyes land on Tony, Tony gives a little wave and Bruce lays his head back down for a moment. After a second he carefully sits up facing Tony, casually leaving his feet in Tony's lap, and Tony's so used to constant contact with Steve, he barely even registers this fact. As Bruce reaches over to pick up his glasses, Tony moves the other coffee cup within Bruce's reach who picks it up with a barely intelligible "Thanks." 

Minutes pass by quietly as they both sit and drink in the quiet morning light. Finally, Bruce sets his cup down and sighs, turning to fully take in the sight of Tony. 

"So, how is it?" He asks, and Tony wonders if his vagueness is purposeful; a test to see what Tony assumes he's referring to. Tony smirks, he's not just gonna fall for that one.

"Bland," He responds looking down into his now half empty coffee-cup, "I think JARVIS switched brands on me, again. He knows better, too; I threatened to turn him into a glorified blender the last time he did this." The look Bruce shoots him is un-amused. 

"Funny. You know what I meant." He says, gently knocking one of his heels against Tony's thigh. Tony leans his head back against the sofa. Yeah, he knows. 

"I don't know." 

The room goes silent. 

"Where have you guys been this whole time, anyway?" Tony asks, suddenly, swatting Bruce lightly on the ankle with fake annoyance, and he's secure in the knowledge that Bruce sees right through it.

"Around. Well, sometimes." Bruce says, shrugging slightly. "Clint and Natasha have had to be out of the country for the last... five days, I think. Thor's been called into SHIELD a couple of times for consultations concerning other... potential Asguardian threats. I've had my own issues." He says vaguely, and he shrugs again, "We're here when we can be. Not all of us have a Pepper Potts." 

"Oh." Tony's face screws up a little in confusion, "How come I've never ran into you guys, then? I've been out here plenty of times."

"Bad timing? I don't know. Who do you think's been restocking the fridge?" Bruce prods, poking Tony in the shoulder. 

" I don't know, I thought JARVIS called someone." 

"Yeah, that would be me, genius." Bruce retorts with a smirk. 

"Fair enough." Tony says, turning slightly to face Bruce better.

"Nobody really thought it would be a good idea to come back there with you two uninvited, so we were just gonna stick around until you guys eventually came out." 

"Wise." 

"Yeah. Natasha had to threaten Thor once or twice to keep him from barging in; he was pretty determined to cheer up Steve." 

Tony chuckles. "He's an enthusiastic one, you gotta give him that." 

Bruce grins for a second, then it fades. "How is he? Really."

"Who, Thor?" Tony asks, deliberating misinterpreting the question to buy a second or two before he really has to answer. He's not sure what to say.

"Tony." Bruce's tone is flat and Tony knows he's not going to be able to avoid the question. He's silent for a long moment. "Not good. Getting better, I think. I hope." 

Bruce nods. "Understandable." There's a moment of silence before Bruce continues. "Pepper called me yesterday. Said you were worried about Steve hurting himself." 

Tony exhales sharply. "I don't think he's going to. Just me projecting my own fears, I think."

"Have you talked to him about seeing a therapist?" Bruce inquires, not unkindly. 

Tony shakes his head, "I haven't been able to talk to him about much of anything." 

"Yeah, Pepper mentioned that, too."

"I don't want to push him into anything." 

"You don't have to. Just suggest it. Explain it's not a bad thing, or something to be ashamed of; and just let him think it over." Bruce says, gently.

"He'll probably say 'no.'" Tony argues.

"Well, if anyone can get him to at least consider it, it's you." Bruce says with a smirk.

Tony's brow furrows, "What?"

Bruce almost smiles, "Oh, come on. You can't tell me you haven't noticed that you're his favorite. I figured you'd be smug as hell about it."

Tony doesn't believe it. He can't believe it. Yeah, he's glad Steve hasn't shoved him away, he's glad they're friends; and yeah, they've been... closer, recently, but Tony's not going to interpret it as more than it is. No matter how much he may or may not want Bruce to be right. He grins ruefully, "Yeah, we've gotten along so well in the past." He says, sarcasm clear.

"Maybe not at first," Bruce admits, "But you can't tell me you two are fighting now." Tony's mind flashes back to Steve's fingers trailing over his chest, almost fucking caressing the arc-reactor, and the fluttery feeling Tony had felt in his chest at the contact. That he feels when he thinks about it. 

"Not anymore than he does with anyone else." Tony says, forcing himself to ignore the flutters in the stomach, and poking Bruce in the foot. 

"You haven't seen the way he looks at you, have you?" Bruce asks, his voice serious and quiet. 

"Guess not." Tony says, voice purposefully light and casual. He's not sure he wants to hear this.

"He looks at you like everything he wants is a few feet in front of him and miles away at the same time." Tony averts his eyes and swears he doesn't feel his face flush like a caught school-girl, "Steve likes us, yeah, I don't doubt that, but none of us come close to that. To be honest, it's enough to make a person jealous."

Tony tries to will his heart-rate back down and he stares into his coffee-cup. "I don't think right now is a good time to explore that theory." he says honestly, desperate to change the subject. Even if Bruce is right (and if Tony were being honest with himself, he'd admit that he hopes Bruce is), this would be an awful time to confront Steve with it. 

"I agree," Bruce says, knocking his foot gently into Tony's stomach again, "just something for you to think about." 

"How can I even be sure I'm helping him?" Tony suddenly blurts out, and he almost slaps his hand over his mouth, but then realizes how badly he wants Bruce to answer. His fingers grip tight around his coffee mug.

"Besides just being there to support him, there's not a whole lot you can do. As long as you're not making fun of him, or trying to magically fix him somehow; this is something he's got to get through on his own."

"That doesn't make this easier, you know." Tony says, with a mock-glare.

"I know," Bruce says, sympathetically, "How are you, anyway?"

"Me?" Tony asks, startled by the question, fingers relaxing their death-grip on his mug, "I'm fine. Great. Couldn't be better."

"You sure about that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Tony asks, mildly confused at the turn in conversation. 

"It's easy to let someone else's pain become your own, even if it's not for the same reasons." Bruce answers, "You can help someone keep their head above water, and go under a few times yourself without realizing it."

Tony stares at Bruce with such a bright feeling of fondness, it makes him slightly dizzy; and wonders how in the hell his companion got to be so damn smart. "I'm okay." He says, after a moment of consideration. "This isn't the easiest thing I've ever done and I feel clueless half the time and God, I wish I felt like I was helping more but... I'm alright." He gently squeezes Bruce's foot. "I promise."

Bruce nods and leans the side of his head against the back of the couch, "Okay, I trust you." Bruce says, reassuringly. Tony's chest tightens just a bit at those words, knowing how valuable they are coming from his friend, and he vows to never betray that trust. He knows, deep down in his bones, he'd never forgive himself if he did. 

"Thank you." Tony says, quietly. Bruce grins and reaches over to grip Tony's shoulder. It's kind of funny, Tony thinks, how they all formed this little web of support without any conscious effort; six individual people, completely different with their own pasts and issues, understanding one another better than anyone else on the planet ever could, and in such a short time. 

Tony sets his coffee cup down on the table in front of him. "I should get back there before he wakes up."

"Yeah. Don't forget about the therapy thing, though." Bruce reminds him, pulling his feet out of Tony's lap as he stands. "Even if all you get is a 'no.' He might change his mind later."

"I won't." Tony ruffles Bruce's already messy curls, and grins just a little. 

As Tony rounds the sofa to go back, Bruce grabs his wrist. "Hey." He says, prompting Tony to look at him, "You know this isn't something that's going to be magically cured overnight, right?"

"I know." Tony says, flat and honest. 

"This is something Steve's gonna struggle with for a long time, whether he talks about it or not." 

"Trust me, if anyone knows that, it's me." He says, and then adds "And you," remembering a very dark moment on the Hellicarrier.

Bruce gives a ruefully smirk, releasing Tony's wrist and waving in the general direction of the bedroom. "Go, take care of our fearless leader. I'll be out here for a while, at least, if you need me." 

Before he walks away, Tony leans over and kisses Bruce's temple, partly as a thank you, and partly just to see the cute, little scrunchy-face Bruce makes when he looks up him when he does it. 

What can he say? He loves his friends.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point you can tell I got a beta-reader.

It's Sunday when Tony talks to Bruce. Afterward, when Tony goes back into Steve's bedroom, the day seamlessly blurs back in with Saturday; each day is becoming harder to distinguish from the last.

Monday passes by uneventfully. JARVIS announces sometime in the afternoon that "Mr. Odinson" has returned from SHIELD headquarters. Tony acknowledges the information with a vague waving gesture, but neither of them react beyond that. Steve just keeps winding the hem of Tony's t-shirt around his fingertips, eyes locked on the TV.

Tuesday goes much the same way. The monotony is only broken once, by Steve, when he gets up. He goes over to sit down in front of the window, stares out; aimlessly watching the movement of the city below him. Tony doesn't go over with him, instead staying in bed and watching Steve, feeling only a little creepy and a lot useless. He wasn't sure what purpose he could've served by going over with him, or what use he could possibly be. Steve probably needed some space, anyway.

It was over an hour later when Steve finally stands and comes back to the bed, where Tony's arms quickly enfold him as the room is drenched in the orange light of the sun setting. He mutters something under his breath, but Tony can't make out the words. He wonders if he even truly wants to know what Steve said.

It's Wednesday that things shift, and everything changes; and, when Steve and Tony look back on it, they'll both be somewhat surprised it was Tony, and not Steve, who cracked first.

\-----

It's late Wednesday night when Steve wakes up, trying to figure out what's wrong. He sits up in his bed and his eyes scanning around the room, trying to let his half-asleep mind piece everything together. Suddenly, one single thought crosses Steve mind. _No blue glow._ No Tony. He glances at the bathroom door, but there's no light shining out underneath. Tony's not here. Steve has to squash down the beginning of a panic attack, his mind immediately going back to leader mode, in which not knowing someone's whereabouts means danger. He rubs his hand over his eyes, and reminds himself that it's a big building, there are many places Tony could be, and he's allowed to be in any of them.. He had said he didn't expect Tony to be his babysitter, and he had meant it. So it's his own fault if Tony's absence stings, because it's ridiculous to expect someone to be there every second of the day. They aren't required to be together. He just needs to calm down and go back to sleep.

Steve lies back down, and closes his eyes. He hates the feeling that almost immediately comes over him-- some kind of deep sense of want and loneliness and a vague sense of panic. It’s different than the numb, hollow feeling he’s been dealing with, but it’s not better. He shouldn't feel like he needs Tony here with him. He shouldn't be panicking, his mind flipping through 'what-if's, imagining something terrible has happened and that's why Tony's not here. He should be perfectly capable of lying in his own bed by himself, like a mature adult. He opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, berating himself for being so weak. He can do this. He and Tony aren't joined at the hip. He can deal with this. He's fine. Tony is fine. Nothing is wrong. Steve's just being stupid. He can deal with this.

He can't deal with this.

He sits up, and gives in. "JARVIS," he asks, voice quiet and shaky. He clears his throat, still unused to talking again. His silence has become a sort of shelter, and even small sentences make him feel exposed and nervous. He doesn't like the feeling and he ignores the shiver down his back at hearing his own voice. "Where's Tony?"

" _Sir is currently in his workshop._ " JARVIS responds, prompt as ever.

"He's okay, right?" Steve asks, feeling more stupid than ever for even making this an issue. Of course, Tony's okay. He's in his own workshop, where he spends weeks at a time. He's fine. Steve mentally kicks himself for even feeling the need to ask.

" _Sir is physically uninjured_ ," JARVIS says, and Steve notices his odd choice of words, and how hesitant the AI sounds. "H _owever, his blood alcohol level is currently .086%. He is experiencing significant impairment of his motor functions, and I fear this may lead to an accident._ "

JARVIS is barely done speaking before Steve has gotten out of bed, already heading to the elevator. He's thankful he doesn't have to say a word, JARVIS anticipating his intentions and sending the elevator rising as soon as the doors close. Steve closes his eyes and fights down the sense of dread in his chest. In the minute it takes for the elevator to reach its destination, Steve can feel the anxiety under his skin.

The doors glide open and Steve's ears are immediately assaulted by Tony's selection of rock music. Steve braces himself against the sound. He steps into the lab and glances around, spotting Tony over at a table, piecing together various segments of a holographic display of a piece of armor Steve's never seen, but which resemble the chest-guard of the Iron Man suit. Steve takes in the empty liquor bottle on the table near the door of the lab, and the shot glasses scattered around the lab. He hopes the bottle was already partially empty when Tony started, but unfortunately has no way of knowing. He also notices a second liquor bottle that Tony currently is pouring, with little grace, into a shot glass. He downs it quickly—and messily.

He watches Tony bend slightly and lay a hand on the display table in front of him for a second, before straightening back up, and continuing to configure the pieces, despite the fact that he is swaying slightly. Steve carefully approaches the scientist, and lays a hand on his shoulder, but immediately startles him, causing Tony to jump back away from Steve. But almost instantly, Tony recovers and makes a vague gesture with his hand... the violently loud music stops. Steve breathes a sigh of relief.

"Hey, Cap!" Tony says, face bright and flushed. "What're you doin' all the way up here?"

Steve's not really sure what to say, confronted with such an obviously inebriated Tony Stark. He knew Tony drank, yes, but not usually to this degree. He picks up the bottle Tony had just poured from and holds it up, looking at Tony questioningly.

"Yeah, that is mine." Tony answers as though he's speaking to a child, and Steve can’t resist the sudden – and surprising – urge to rise to the bait. “I know it’s yours,” he says, trying not to sound too nasty, “We had booze-hounds back in my day, too. What are you doing, Tony?" Steve asks, glaring at Tony and trying to ignore how his hands shake slightly at the alien feeling of speaking. He's got to get over this.

"Holy shit, he speaks!" Tony says, and Steve feels his face heat in embarrassment. He should've known Tony would make fun of him, sooner or later. "I was startin' to think I'd ruined you completely."

Steve's face contorts in confusion at Tony's words. How has Tony ruined him? Before he even gets the chance to ask, Tony continues. "I'm down here workin' on a new design for the suit," he tells Steve, his words slurring together. "I already figur'd out how to upgrade the repurses... repol... repull... the shooty-hand-things. They only take half as much power now." There's so much pride in his voice, and Steve watches sadly as Tony grabs the bottle out of Steve's hand, pours himself another shot and clumsily tosses it back. Steve takes the bottle back out of Tony's hand and sets it on the display table behind himself. This small action helps him make an active decision, one of the first it feels like he has made in days.

"Come back to bed," he softly requests, taking Tony's hand and tugging on it gently.

Tony pulls his hand out of Steve's and tries to reach around Steve for the bottle that Steve confiscated, but Steve stands, unmoving. Tony glares, but without any real heat. "I'm staying here," he says, voice still noticeably slurred. He steps back over to the display and pulls a smaller device towards him. Steve couldn't even begin to guess what it's for or what it does, but Tony looks back at Steve and holds it up. "Steve, look at this. C'mere, c'mere, c'mere." He gestures wildly for Steve to come closer, hand waving drunkenly in the air, and Steve makes no move to get closer. "Look at this. I've been workin' on this for weeks and I finally finish'd it."

Steve tries again, grabbing Tony's wrist and attempting to move him towards the door, but Tony pulls away again. "I want to stay down here."

"Why?"

"Because I do." Tony answers bluntly, "My lab. I can stay down here as long as I want." He turns back to the display and cradles his new device, whatever it is, in his hands like a baby bird--an amazingly gentle gesture for someone so completely bombed.

"Tony, put down the... hologram and come with me, please." Steve knows he's begging but he can't bring himself to care. He just wants Tony out of here. Tony in his work-shop is one thing, Drunk-Tony is another. If anything happens to Tony right now, Steve would always feel like it was his fault for leaving him alone. Tony has to be okay. He needs Tony to be okay.

"No." Tony says, not even taking his eyes off of the display.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not completely _useless_ down here!" Tony unexpectedly shouts this, dropping the device and throwing his hands in the air in frustration as he turns towards Steve. Steve flinches at the sudden movement. "When I'm down here, I know what I'm doing. I-I'm not completely helpless. I always know what to do, it makes... it all makes sense to me down here. I don't fuck things up!"

Steve feels his chest tighten as he realizes what Tony's actually saying. He reaches out to touch Tony, not even really sure why, but he doesn't get to make contact, Tony pulling away from him and taking a step back. "I'm sorry, Steve. I am. I'm... not helping you. I know that. You know that." Tony's voice is quiet and sad, his eyes are glassy, and he seems utterly defeated. Steve feels pinpricks behind his own eyes. How on Earth could Tony ever feel like he's useless? Steve can't imagine trying to get through this mess without him, and he doesn't understand how Tony doesn't see that.

Maybe because Steve never told him. _Damn it._

"Down here, I can do... things, I know how to do things." Tony is continuing as he, gestures at the displays. "When I'm with you, I... don't know what to do. I don't know anything." Tony moves to sit down in the chair a few feet away, but more collapses than sits. He runs his hands over his face and back through his hair. "I'm so fucking _worthless_ I can't even help someone talk. How pathetic is that?"

Steve stares at him, unmoving, chest aching under the weight of the realization that his silence, his constant struggle isn’t hurting just him. He’s been hurting Tony, and he fights back against the burning behind his eyes. He slowly steps over in front of Tony and kneels down in front of him. He takes Tony's hands and holds them in his own. Tony looks up from the spot on the floor he was staring at and Steve almost gasps at the sadness he sees staring back at him. Instead, he leans his forehead against Tony's, ignoring the heavy smell of liquor on his breath. He hopes this small contact can convey something, some tiny fragment of the profound gratitude he feels for Tony, the affection... Moments pass by, slow and quiet, neither one of the moving. Finally Steve pulls back and sits back on his heels. He has to look up slightly at Tony from this angle, but that seems appropriate right now.

"You are _not_ pathetic," Steve says, his voice quiet, even, and definite.

“Of course not." Tony scoffs under his breath, “Jus’ a drunk mess.”

Steve takes a deep breath. He can already tell this just isn't going to work. Everything he says right now, Tony's just going to ignore and inevitably forget when he wakes up tomorrow. And what Tony doesn't ignore, he'll argue. There's no point in even trying.

"Tony, do you trust me?" he asks, and he can see Tony calculating in his head, trying to figure out what Steve's going to do. He nods, after a moment, staring at Steve, and Steve swears he can feel Tony looking directly into his worn-out soul. It's incredibly intense, almost intimate. He finally breaks the connection and stands, not letting go of Tony's hands "Then come with me."

Tony slumps, and as he does, Steve can see the misery in his body language. He can see the conflict--how badly Tony doesn't want to give in, warring with how badly he wants to make Steve happy. Steve can see it written all over him, like someone took a permanent marker to him. But finally, Tony stands, stumbling forward slightly as he does, and then tripping on his own two feet. He almost falls but Steve catches him, stands him back up.

Tony smirks, "Hey, at least one of us isn't completely worthless." Steve can feel himself flinch again. He hates hearing Tony talk so badly about himself. He wishes Tony could see himself like Steve sees him, and it tears him up that he doesn't. They walk to the elevator in tense silence, Tony swaying on his feet and Steve keeping a hand on his forearm to help keep him upright. Finally, they get back to Steve's floor, and Steve guides Tony into the bedroom.

"And now I'm useless, again. Yay." Tony says as soon as they cross the doorway. His exhaustion is audible in his voice, making his words slur even more, if possible. Steve doesn't say anything, refuses to acknowledge that Tony has even spoken, knowing how pointless it is at this point in his inebriation. He just pulls the covers back on the bed, and maneuvers Tony into sitting down on the edge. He kneels down and pulls Tony's shoes off. Tony doesn't stop him, just sits, and watches him as he unties each set of laces with quick efficiency and tugs them off to throw them in the corner. As he stands up and goes to move around to the other side of the bed, Tony catches his hand, and Steve turns back to him.

"I'm sorry." He whispers these words, the heartbreak clear in his voice, and Steve is overcome with the violent urge to destroy everyone in the world who made Tony Stark feel like anything less than the amazing person he is. Steve brushes a piece of hair out of Tony's eyes.

"Just sleep, okay?" he says, pushing gently on Tony's shoulder. Tony nods and goes with it, lying down and curling in on himself. Steve can see him squeeze his eyes shut and push his face into the pillow, as though attempting to block out the world around him. Steve knows the feeling well. He pulls the covers up over Tony, and moves around the bed to crawl in beside him. He pulls Tony close, so his back is pressed against Steve's chest; effectively making him the little spoon. He almost expects to hear a smart-ass comment in regards their position, because they’ve been in quite a few interesting arrangements, but this is a new one; but Tony doesn't say a word, and it's only a minute or two before he hears soft snoring.

Steve pulls Tony tighter against him, pressing his face into the curve between Tony's neck and shoulder. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, breathing in past the smell of liquor and grease and inhaling something purely Tony. Steve bites his lip, forcing back a moan and almost wishes that scent were less intoxicating. He shouldn't want this. He shouldn't want to clutch Tony close like this, to hold him as intimately as a lover. He shouldn't think about Tony's calloused hands and how they would feel sliding on his skin. He shouldn't get butterflies in his stomach whenever Tony says his name. He definitely knows he shouldn't fantasize about Tony's lips, how soft they'd feel against his own. When he thinks about this, and how kind Tony has been to him, it makes Steve feel like he's taking advantage of Tony, and he hates it. He shouldn't feel like this.

But, God help him, he does.

With these guilty thoughts for company, as well as the oddly comforting noise of Tony's drunken snores, Steve allows himself to fall into the forgiving arms of sleep.

\--------------

Tony wakes up the next morning, and it feels like someone has taken a sledge-hammer to his head. He can't think straight, his mouth is dry, and tastes roughly the way he imagines possum-piss would taste. His stomach is roiling and he feels like he could die at any moment. He tries to remember the night before. He knows he was here, in bed, with Steve when Steve fell asleep. He remembers not be able to sleep and feeling restless and twitchy. He remembers going down into the workshop and pulling up the design for the repulsors, trying to get his mind off of Steve. He remembers finishing off a half-empty bottle of tequila, and starting in on a second. Trying so hard to just blank his mind, get something done, be worth something. If possible, his head hurts more now, and his stomach seems to be feeling even more sour. He turns in bed, expecting to see Steve next to him, and he's shocked to realize he's alone. Great. He must've come back up and passed out next to Steve, and freaked him out. That's just great. Although, he thinks as he shifts his feet, he usually doesn't take his shoes off when he passes out. Which means...

Steve came and got him. Steve. Oh shit. Suddenly Tony feels the memory of the entire night come rushing back to him. The burn of alcohol on his throat, the music blasting in his ears, Steve coming down and asking Tony to come back to bed, and Tony... Tony being a complete jack-ass. Oh, God.

Tony's up and in the bathroom before another thought can even begin to form, the stomach acid and left-over liquor burning up into his esophagus as he hits his knees in front of the toilet. He closes his eyes and tries to fight the next wave of nausea down, but another surge leaves him heaving into the toilet, eyes burning, stomach cramping. How is he ever going to fix this?

He said it--he'd told Steve how worthless and pathetic he was, confirmed what Steve had probably already figured out for himself. He'd admitted it and now Steve would finally ask him to leave, and then go find someone who could actually help. His stomach roils again, but this time it's empty dry-heaving and it's better and worse at the same time. He can feel everything calming down, except for his heartbeat, thumping away wildly in his chest. How can he even begin to repair the damage he's done?

He keeps his hands on either side of the toilet-seat, bracing for another wave, not trusting it to be over, when he feels a hand move through his hair. He turns to see a cup of coffee being held out to him, and it smells like the most heavenly thing God ever created. He takes it, and sits back against the wall, hitting the handle on the toilet as he does. He doesn't look directly at him, but he's aware of Steve sitting sit down next to him, facing him. He takes a few minutes to slowly sip his coffee, washing the taste of bile out of his mouth. He could cry with gratitude when he feels his headache back off a bit, and he finally looks up.

Steve is sitting cross-legged with his back straight, expression serious and yet unsure, no cup in his own hands, which lay motionless in his lap. "I need to talk to you."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanna give a huge thanks to my beta-reader. This story would've sucked without her.

"I need to talk to you."

Tony feels his stomach drop at Steve’s ominous words, but he nods in acknowledgement as he looks back down into his coffee. He's not surprised, honestly; this is exactly what he expected to happen; what he’s been trying to prepare himself for. He knows there's no way this can possibly end well for them, but he has to do what's best for Steve; even if that means leaving so someone else can take his place. But this doesn’t stop him from trying to stall, buy a little time. He rotates the cup around in his hands, and tries to stall. "What, right now, on the bathroom floor?" He asks, flatly. It’s a pathetic excuse for a stall, but right now, it’s the best he’s got.

Steve considers him for a moment, and then nods, his facial expression revealing nothing; and then, with more grace than someone of his size should really be capable of, stands in one fluid motion. Tony's pretty sure he'd fall over and go right back to dry-heaving if he tried to replicate this elegant move. So instead, he remains solidly on the floor, where nothing falls over and no one tells anyone else to go the fuck away. He likes floors. Floors understand him. Floors accept him.

Unfortunately, he thinks, he will eventually have to stand up, despite the ache behind his eyes and his unreliable stomach; and face reality. Steve has vacated the room, and Tony now sits in deafening silence. He feels cold, and stupid, and lonely, and his head still hurts and his chest still aches, and he swears to God if anyone asked, he's not about to cry; but fuck it, since no one else is around right now, maybe he'll admit it to himself. He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath and downs the rest of his coffee. No point in delaying the inevitable any longer.

\---

Steve’s sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for Tony to emerge from the bathroom. As he waits, he keeps his shoulders hunched over and his eyes locked on the floor and tries to figure out how he can explain this. He has no idea how, but he owes Tony that much.

Just then, he hears the bathroom door open, and he lifts his eyes to take in the pathetic view of Tony, slowly shuffling out into the bedroom. He’s still hungover to all hell, still pale, still looking faintly sick, and Steve feels a sharp stab of guilt. It’s because of him that Tony is in this state.

This is the thought that crosses his mind as Tony begins to move towards the bed, but then hesitates for a moment before switching direction and sitting down in a chair, further away from Steve. Steve tries to strike a poker face and ignore the disappointment he feels. In this way, a moment passes, and then Steve clears his throat.

"I'm sorry," He says, and winces slightly as his voice barely makes it above a whisper. He looks up and locks eyes with Tony, sees the trepidation there, and he’d do anything to get that look off of his face. He doesn’t want Tony looking at him like that,like he’s afraid of what Steve’s going to say next. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to look away, if he has any hope of getting this out.

"I'm sorry," he tries again, a little louder this time, staring at the wall, "For the way I've been acting."

 

"What?" Tony asks, and he hears thesurprise palpable in Tony's voice. Is it really that shocking for him to hear Steve apologize?  He cringes as he puts a hand on the back of his neck, feeling ashamed of himself.

"I know I've been acting... selfish, lately." Steve continues on, "I haven't been acting like any kind of a proper leader. I've been acting weak, and cowardly. Hiding away, refusing to-to face the world, and I'm sorry."He glances over just enough to know that Tony’s simply staring at him. "I don't know how to... explain, how the last few weeks have felt; but I do know I owe it to you to at least try.” He pauses for a moment to try and gather his thoughts. It doesn’t work well, and so he simply plunges on.

“When this started, I felt... exhausted. I spent every minute of the day feeling like I hadn't slept in weeks." Steve takes a deep breath, "I felt like I couldn't breathe. I could barely move. It hurt. _Everything_ hurt. Then I had that... panic attack, and after that I felt like I was losing my mind. I couldn't focus on anything, my mind kept going back to... my life before. Remembering random things, memories, moments; it was overwhelming. And I didn't know how to tell you any of that, so I didn't say anything.After a while, it got easier and easier to just stay silent, and-and eventually it started to feel like if I talked, I'd make it hurt more. So I didn't. I didn't know _how_ to deal with it, so I just didn't. I laid around and watched cartoons because it's all I felt like I could do. I couldn't even take a shower without having a breakdown." Steve can’t help but shudder a little as he remembers the crushing black hole of despair and alienation, but after a moment, he puts the emotions aside and carries on.

"And you helped—you respected my silence, you didn’t push me or tease me or belittle what I was going through.  You helped me keep the world out and at the same time you helped me to keep myself from losing my grasp on the world altogether.”

"No, Steve, I didn't." Tony suddenly blurts, and Steve just watches in shock as Tony gets up and starts pacing back and forth. "I didn't do anything. Nothing good, anyway. I have been so worthless to you, how can you not see that? I was useless. What did I do? I should've left you alone when you asked me to. That would've been helpful. Instead of this... this, waiting around and doing nothing! You can’t tell me that was helping, not seriously."

As he crosses back in front of Steve, closer than before, Steve reaches out and grabs his wrist. "Hey." Steve has to tug at Tony to keep him from pulling away. "Hey, c'mere." His voice is gently insistent, and it gets Tony to stop struggling; but he refuses to look at Steve, and Steve can’t help but feel a little hurt. Nonetheless, Steve tugs again, and Tony gets the hint, allowing Steve to pull him closer and have him stand in front of him. Steve rubs his thumb on the back of Tony's hand, and then tightens his grasp, feeling Tony’s calloused fingers as he does. "Tony, it wasn't 'nothing.' If it weren't for you, I would've gone insane after just a few days. You... God, you helped— you _are_ helping. You were there for me. You let me hold on to you, and rely on you; you never gave up on me. You never left. You took care of me. You’re still taking care of me. You help me remember to breathe. That's not 'nothing.' That's _everything_.”

"Yeah, right." Tony scoffs, and Steve stands abruptly. "Hey," he says, giving Tony’s hand a little shake, "Look at me." Tony doesn't move, simply keeps his head bowed and Steve slides a hand up around Tony's wrist. "Tony, c'mon. Please."

Tony finally looks up at him and Steve sighs as he sees the ill-disguised distress in his eyes. "Tony, I should've said this before now, and I'm sorry for that… but you are the only thing that has kept me grounded through this." Tony looks away, and Steve moves a hand up to Tony's jaw, turning Tony's face back towards his. As soon as he knows he has Tony’s attention, he reluctantly drops his hand to Tony’s shoulder—a safer, less intimate place. "You don't have to believe it; you just have to accept that _I_ do."

Tony faintly nods, and Steve ducks his head down to hold Tony's gaze when he tries to look away, "Now, I'm gonna talk some more and I need you to listen, okay?" Tony nods, again. Steve lets his hand drop from Tony's shoulder. He keeps one of Tony's hands in his and uses it to pull him down onto the bed, so they're both sitting on the edge. 

"The problem is that I don't..." Steve starts, and stops suddenly, trying to figure out how he can possiblyexplain. "I just don't know how to... adjust to this. I don't know how to get my mind around the idea... the fact that what I remember as two months ago is really 70 years ago. I don't know how to deal with the fact that everything about the life I knew is gone. Completely. And it's not coming back. I _hate_ that so much. I _hate_ that everything changed and I got left behind. I don't know anything about the world anymore, because literally nothing is the same as it was. And I don't want to learn about it. I want it to go away. I want to go back to the life I knew, back when I had Bucky and Peggy and things were crazy, but they were normal, ya know? And now... now what people consider normal is bizarre or ‘old-fashioned.’ And I'm not supposed to be here, I don’t fit here. I don't want to be here. I miss my life. I miss Peggy, and Bucky, God, I miss Bucky; and all of my friends, all of the people that cared about me.

“There's this small part of me that's happy I'm alive, I swear, and it wants to go run around and find out as much about everything as I possibly can; but it's a really, really small part. Most of me just wants to go home."

Steve hears the words tumbling out of his mouth, but it's an odd sensation, like he's not controlling them, or consciously deciding what to say. Everything's just spilling out and he doesn't know how to stop it. He doesn’t know if he wants to.  "But I can't. I can't go home, and I have to face that, and it hurts. It hurts so much, it makes my bones ache and my chest hurt; and I've been weak and selfish and I've let myself get lost in the feeling, because I didn't know what else to do. I don't know what else to do, now. I know I need to learn how to live my life again, and be the leader I'm supposed to be, and I hate that I can't get over this. I feel like I'm drowning... like I'm trapped in my own head. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do.

"And I let you believe you were less than you are because I didn't tell you how much you were helping, just by being there. You've been exactly what I needed. And letting you think differently is something I am always going to regret, because you didn't deserve that, and I'm so sorry." When Steve finishes, it’s not because he ran out of words but because he ran out of breath. His skin feels flushed and hot and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Somewhere along in the rant, he traded places with Tony, and he nowrealizes he's the one pacing back and forth as he speaks. He stops now, facing away from Tony, and he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, ignoring the sting behind them.

Suddenly, there's a hand on his arm, and he turns to face Tony; who's regarding him with an intensity tinged with sadness. "I can't," Tony pauses, struggling to find the proper words, "I can't fix your problem, Steve. I can't take you back in time, or give you back any of your friends; and that's something I'm always gonna regret."

Steve nods, and something deep and warm glows in his chest at Tony's words; but at the same time, he still has to fight back tears. He's so damn confused anymore.

"And the fact is that this isn't something you're going to just move on from or get over. You're not going to wake up one day and never feel bad about this again. No one expects you to; _you_ shouldn’t expect yourself to." Tony's voice is low and soothing, intended to offer reassurance, "Even leaders fall down. That doesn't make them less. You're still Cap, you’re still our leader. This doesn't change that at all."

Steve nods again, and Tony runs his hand up Steve's arm to his elbow and back down to his wrist, unaware that he provokes a shiver that Steve can barely suppress."But," Tony goes on, his voice gaining a slightly cheerful tone that would be inappropriate coming from anyone other than him, "I have an idea."

"What?"

"Do you trust me?" Tony asks, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Steve says, "Yes."

"Then meet me down in the garage in fifteen minutes."

"Wait, what?" Steve asks, brow furrowing.

"I'd go there with you, but," Tony gestures self-deprecatingly at himself. "Kinda need a shower first."

"What are we-"

"Fifteen minutes!" Tony calls, heading to the bathroom. "JARVIS will take you to the garage."

"Tony, I don't-" Steve starts to say, but Tony back-tracks just long enough to lay a hand on Steve's shoulder and cut him off, yet again, "This should be good, I promise. Nothing scary, okay?" Tony grins when Steve nods hesitantly in agreement,and with that, Tony quickly moves back into the bathroom.

Steve stands motionless for a moment, completely baffled at the events that have transpired. He hears the sound of water running, and he suddenly realizes Tony is actually serious. Apparently, they're going somewhere; for the first time in God only knows how long, Steve was leaving the Tower. He supposes he should put on shoes.

\------------

 

It's twenty minutes later when they pull out of the garage onto the hectic streets of Manhattan, ensconced in one of Toy’s more understated sports cars. Steve is infinitely grateful for the sunglasses Tony handed him in the garage, as the afternoon sun hits him in the face, jarringly bright. 

"So what exactly are we doing?" Steve asks, as Tony maneuvers his posh sports-car around a corner.

"It's a surprise." Tony says, resolutely. He looks pleased with himself, Steve has to admit, and so he can’t help but wonder what exactly Tony's got up his sleeve.

"You're not just going to drop me in the middle of Times Square, are you?" Steve asks, apprehensively; leaning his head against the glass of the window. He remembers when he first came awake in this century and he ran out into the teeming area all by himself. His panic made so much worse by the people, the chaos, the deafening noise. He hasn’t been back since and he doesn’t want to go back now, but he's pretty sure Tony wouldn't do that. Regardless, he still feels like he should ask.

Tony looks away from the road just long enough to give Steve an un-amused look over the top of his sunglasses. "I wouldn't do that to you," he promises, his voice rough with some unknown emotion, before shifting his gaze back to the road.

Steve sighs, and looks back out the window, watching the scenery pass by; the high-rises, the pre-war apartment buildings of brick and limestone- -these, Steve found incredibly disconcerting- -the restaurants and shops. People walking their dogs or talking on wireless phones, all dressed in clothing that looks like something out of sci-fi novel… or perhaps pornography. A few minutes later, he feels Tony reach over and squeeze his hand, and he doesn't hesitate to grip Tony's tight in response. He knows Tony wouldn't be that cruel.

\--------

Tony picks up Broadway, and Steve spends something close to an hour watching the world go by as they head north through the city. Sky-scrapers morph into less imposing buildings, crammed in side-by side but still revealing more stretches of sky.  Both he and Tony are silent while they drive, but it's a comfortable silence and Steve has to fight to keep from falling asleep. It feels meditative almost, like the silence is helping repair the bits of him that are still raw from this morning.

Finally, Tony pulls to a stop, and with the miraculous luck that can only come from being Tony Stark, pulls into an honest-to-god available parking space by the curb. But Steve barely notices this, because he’s letting his brain register their destination.

"Tony," Steve asks, slowly, "Why are we at a park?"

“Inwood Hill Park, to be precise.”

 He looks around at the bright green trees surrounding the walkway stretching before him, and can imagine the picnic tables and benches that are scatteredaround the area. He can picture the large overly-colorful playground with children climbing all over it, parents watching and talking; and the ducks gliding across the water pond which they will inevitably find.

Tony clears his throat, "You said you felt... trapped, right?" Steve nods, remembering that coming up somewhere in his ramblings, and his chest twinges at the truth of the words. "Well, I thoughtgetting out of that room would do you some good, and... this hasn't changed, has it?" He asks, suddenly sounding unsure of himself. Steve finally looks away from the scene in front of him and turns to Tony.

"What do you mean?" Steve asks, feeling more than a little lost. Of course, everything's changed. How could it not have?

"Trees are still trees, aren't they?" Tony retorts, almost defensively. "Grass hasn't been upgraded or redesigned. None of this has really changed. I thought- maybe-"

"It's perfect," Steve interrupts quietly, suddenly catching on,and it's true. Tony’s a genius. Nature's the one thing that's the same now as it was seventy years ago, and Steve feels a surge of gratitude towards Tony, as he remembers how good it felt to have the sun shine on his skin when he had his... episode. It was a comfort, something familiar and unchanged, and he'd almost completely forgotten about it. He glances over just in time to see Tony beam with pride and pleasure at his idea.

"C'mon," Tony says, popping his car door open and climbing out. Steve's quick to follow his action, popping the handle of his own door. The relief he feels when he steps into the sunlight is unbelievable, and he stops to take a deep breath, relishing the smell and feel of fresh air. He can’t believe he let himself forget about this.  He feels goose-bumps run up his arms, despite the bright, warm August weather. The knot of anxiety and anguish that tied itself inside Steve's stomach weeks ago begins to feel looser. It's been unwinding itself all day, and Steve could groan in relief.

Instead, he simply stands eyes with closed, letting the sun heat up his skin, smiling faintly when the breeze blows the heat away.

"Hey," Tony says, and Steve opens his eyes to see Tony standing on the paved path that leads into the park. He motions towards himself as he starts walking, "Let's go for a stroll, huh?"

"Aren’t people going to recognize us?" Steve asks, unsure if he could handle hordes of admirers and fans right now. Actually, he’s completely sure he couldn’t.

"I doubt it. Why would Tony Stark and Captain America come to a park like this? It’s not exactly Central Park, it’s a little out of the way. No one would believe it." Tony shrugs.

Steve figures he's probably right, and a small part of him says it’s worth the risk; soSteve moves to fall into step beside Tony.

Of course it's peaceful, and of course he begins to take in the sights and sounds that he had imagined: The sound of children yelling as they play, happy and loud; and the quacking of ducks meandering around the park, completely unaware of anything outside their own world. All of it almost makes Steve forget why he was upset in the first place.

But he can't. He can’t forget, and as badly as he wishes it didn’t, he can feel the weight of his grief and isolation start to weigh him down. They walk in silence for a while, until they come across an empty wooden bench under what Steve is pretty sure is ared oak tree. Tony sits down and looks at Steve expectantly, but Steve has a better idea. He bends down and unties his shoes, straightens back up and toes them off. He sets them on the bench next to Tony; and then quickly peels his socks off after that, shoving each of them inside their respective shoe.

Steve knows Tony's watching him, bemused but curious. Steve carefully steps off the concrete and onto the warm grass. The blades bend under his weight and it feels like the world's weirdest carpet but also, just may be the best thing he's ever felt. He takes a few tentative steps, and then relaxes, enjoying it. He walks around a little, doesn't go too far from the bench —almost as though he is reluctant to stray too far from Tony, who is still watching him, now amused and smirking.

Steve suddenly has an urge that he doesn’t want to deny. He sits down in the grass behind the bench and lies back, arms spread wide; he feel grass tickling his neck and arms where his shirt doesn't cover. It's oddly freeing, and he closes his eyes and lies there for a moment; on the grass in the sunshine, just... existing.

For a moment, under the anonymous sky and the unchanging grass, he can pretend he's home again.

Steve takes great comfort in letting his mind go blank, even if just for that one moment, but it doesn't last. He can already feel the knot in his stomach start to tighten again. He hears movement near his head, and he opens his eyes to see Tony standing above him, looking down at him with an inscrutable expression.

“Seriously?” Tony asks, incredulously, but Steve can see the teasing grin he’s biting back, and so he relaxes back into the grass, closes his eyes again and tries to get the feeling of home back. It doesn't work. Instead, he can feel the knot in his stomach tighten again.

"This doesn't fix anything, you know." Steve says, sadly; realizing as nice as it feels, it's true.

"I know," Tony concedes, sitting down cross-legged next to him, facing Steve, and reaching out to brush Steve's hair back away from his face, "But it doesn't hurt, either. Fresh air never killed anyone, and it's good to get you out of the Tower. Cabin fever and all that jazz."

"You're one to talk." Steve retorts, and he hears Tony chuckle. A beat passes. "It still hurts." Steve admits, almost in a whisper, but it’s still loud enough for Tony to hear, and sigh in response, "I know."

Steve sits up, crossing his own legs, tucking his feet against the scratchy grass, his knee almost touching Tony’s but not quite. It’s the closest contact Steve canreally allow himself, given their public position; despite the fact he desperately wants to latch onto Tony like alonely octopus. It’s good though. Even if they’re technically not touching, they’re close; and just the proximity of having Tony next to him calms him in a way he can’t quite explain, but he’s grown accustomed to.

Neither of them speak, and Steve can feel the memories start closing in again. He thinks about Peggy, and what her voice sounded like. He thinks about Bucky, days spent roaming around the city, Bucky chasing girls and Steve teasing him every time he struck out, even as he envied Bucky his confidence. As Steve stops and sifts through the memories, some hurting worse than others, he starts to realize it's the people he misses more than anything else. He's not sure if that realization helps or just hurts more. He’s not sure how long he sits there, lost in his own head again, before Tony gently pulls him out.

"Hey," Tony suddenly says, lightly tapping Steve on the knee, "You're thinking too loud. Can’t a guy get some peace?" Steve's only visible reaction is to tug gently on the blades of grass by his hands.Tony taps his knee again. "Talk to me. You were doing good with the talking. Continue. Don't clam up on me again."

"I was just thinking," Steve says, turning his head to look off at the kids playing on the swingset, "I miss... everything about... before. I miss the music, and the cars and the things I was familiar with. Things that were considered new and useful back then are completely obsolete now, and I kind of feel like that applies to me, too." He watches as a little girl in a sundress twists the chains of her swing together until they won't go anymore; and then she lets go, and spins, laughing, as they unwind and she spins faster and faster. "But, that's bearable. It's hard, but I can deal with it." He says, looking away from her as he hangs his head.

"Okay," Tony acknowledges, prompting Steve to continue.

"When I was little, just a kid; my dad died, and it was just my mom and I." Steve says, "We moved around a lot, for one reason or another, but she was always there. I could talk to her, she took care of me when I was sick, she loved me and I loved her. She was my mom." Steve pretends his voice doesn't crack on that last sentence, remembering a pain he thought he’d moved past long ago. "So even though I hardly ever slept in the same bed for more than a couple months at a time, she was my home. No matter where we happened to live, she was my constant. And then, when I was seventeen, she died."He checks to see if Tony is still paying attention, and of course he is, his eyes fixed on Steve, silently encouraging him to continue.

"But I had Bucky. He was my best friend growing up. He was arrogant, woman-obsessed, cocky, and smart enough to justify all of it." Steve looks up at Tony and smirks, "You would've liked him." Tony narrows his eyes playfully and swats Steve on the knee, but he doesn't interrupt.

"We lived together in a boarding house, where 'misplaced youths' were constantly going in and out. I don't think anyone considered it home. Honestly, I don't see how anyone could’ve. We were all waiting for bigger and better things. But I was okay, because I had a home; I had Bucky. He was my home then, wherever he was. And he took care of me when I was sick, which was most of the time, and he was more of a friend than I think most people knew how to be, then or now. And then he died, too." Steve stops, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying desperately to not cry. Then he runs his hands through his hair and sniffs, fighting the feeling down.

"But by that time, I had other people around me. It wasn't easy, I mean, having people around didn't stop it from feeling like someone shot me in the chest every time I thought about him. Every time I think about him.  I had Peggy, though, and the Howling Commandos, and they were my family, then. They knew me. They gave me some reality, some support to hold on to, even when everything else fell apart. They were my home." Steve takes a shuddering breath and then acknowledges the worst part, the part that feels like it’s been trying to crush him for the past three weeks. “And now I don't have that. I’m alone. It’s like I want to go home, but I don’t have one,” he quietly concludes, "And I think that's what hurts the most."

Tony reaches out and takes Steve’s hand in his own. He intertwines their fingers and lets them lay on Steve’s leg, and tries not to notice or care that Steve seems to relax and breathe a little easier at the contact. He knows he’s become attached to physical contact over the past while, but he can’t find it in him to care enough to decide if that’s good or bad. He just wants it. It’s a brilliantly simple touch, comforting in it’s now familiarity, but simple enough not to draw attention. Steve squeezes slightly, and rubs his thumb on the back of Tony’s hand.

"You know," Tony says, after a long silence between them, "It occurs to me.”

"Hm?"  Steve asks, vaguely, as a gust of wind blows air up his shirt and sends a shiver down his spine.

"You said what hurt was not having people who knew you. You feel like you don't have a home because the people you held onto are gone now, right?" Tony asks, and Steve's more than a little shocked Tony was actually listening that well. 

"Yeah, I suppose you could say it like that," he answers, slowly untangling his fingers from Tony’s and flipping Tony’s hand over to inspect the lines of his palm. He runs his fingers carefully over every crease, callous, and scar.

"But you do."

Steve fingertips still and he looks at Tony questioningly.

"You have the Tower. You have us." Tony points out. "I know we don't know you as well as anyone then did, but we want to. We've all been trying to know each other in our own little ways. Thor tells epic tales of battle in his homeland and expects everyone else to do the same; Clint and Natasha share the little bits of their life that aren't classified to hell and back. Bruce has an amazing way of getting you to engage in the most ridiculous heart-to-hearts I've ever been a part of and then somehow makes it feel like it was your idea to begin with. Hell, you screamed at everyone, and they've been doing their level best to camp out in the living room until you came out again."

 

Steve's can feel his eyebrows shoot up in shock. He hadn't known about that.

"And I think I've proven how far I'm willing to go to see you happy," he continues, and Steve can feel himself blush self-consciously, "My point is, we can be home for you, if you let us. We're kinda fucked up, I'll be the first to admit, but most homes, most families are."

Steve stares down at their hands, his fingertips still resting in Tony’s palm. He never thought about it like that before.

"No one's asking you to replace the people you had." Tony says, and Steve stops for a moment, wondering if Tony gained the ability of telepathy without anyone knowing. "You're allowed to miss them, and everything else you’re used to. I don't expect you to have a sudden revelation and be okay with everything now, so don't even try.  It's just something to think about, ya know? Something to hold onto."

Steve nods, and he feels his chest tighten, almost as though there’s a band wrapped around him, twisting, and constricting. He doesn't know what to think, or how to feel. There are so many emotions screaming in his head right now, he feels lost and confused. He wishes something, anything, made sense right now. Minutes pass and Steve lets his fingers continue their inspection of Tony’s hand. He knows Tony’s hands almost as well as his own, now.

Steve is still lost in his own head, when Tony carefully removes his hand andglances down at his watch. He gently tugs at the sleeve of Steve's shirt. "We've been here for over an hour. You want to stay longer, or go home?" he asks, and they both pretend they don't notice his choice of words. He stands carefully, brushing stray bits of grass of his jeans; and he extends a hand to Steve, who grips tight and pulls himself up. 

Steve sighs and looks around; he'll be coming back to this place for years. He can already tell. But for now…

"I'd like to go home." He says, not letting go of Tony’s hand; and for the first time, in a long time, when he says ‘home,’ he doesn't mean an Army barrack.


	8. Chapter Eight

The ride home is a quiet one, neither of them speaking; and that might be a good thing, Tony thinks to himself. Maybe space and silence is what Steve needs right now, after so much talking. The sky is a mix of blues and oranges when they finally pull back into the garage.

They’re in the elevator when Steve finally pipes up. “So what now?” His voice is uncertain and Tony sighs. He’s been wondering that, too. Well, when in doubt, wing it.

“How about we get some food,” he says slowly, “and try watching something other than cartoons?”

Steve gives him a slightly sheepish grin. “They helped.”

Tony can’t help the grin that crosses his own face in response. “I know, but let’s try going a little more modern, shall we? Baby steps.”

Steve nods, and steps off the elevator as the doors open. “What were you thinking?”

Tony grabs the remote control off the coffee table, and turns the TV on. “Ever read The Hobbit?” he asks, as he accesses a menu on the television, a list of movies appearing on the screen.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sitting down on the couch behind Tony, “I did, actually.”

“Well, there was a sequel published.” Tony says, and Steve raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yep. About fifteen to twenty years later,” Tony sits down next to Steve, “Tolkien wrote three more books called The Lord of the Rings and then, about ten years ago, they made movies based on the books. The impressive part is that they didn’t absolutely butcher the books to do it.”

Steve gives Tony an uncertain look, one that speaks volumes.

Tony finally selects the movie off of the menu. “You’ll like it. Elves, Hobbits, rangers, magic. Very… not modern-day. Trust me, Cap,” he assures him, using Steve’s nickname for the first time in weeks.

Steve reflexively tenses at the use of nickname, but forces himself to relax. That’s who he is, and he can’t ignore it forever.

The screen changes to look like the first pages of a book, and Steve can’t help but stare in rapt fascination. It shouldn’t amaze him with everything SHIELD showed him, but it does... Tony ignores the screen, instead pulling out his cell phone, “Okay, we’re eating actual food tonight, what do you want?”

“I…” Steve starts, and then pauses. “I have no idea.” It’s the truth. He’s not entirely sure what his options are, and he has no idea what to ask for.

“Fair enough,” Tony says, catching on, “I’ll pick. You can choose next time.” Tony messes with his phone for a second before putting it up to his ear and chattering away to the person on the other end. Apparently, Tony’s ordered from them before, because he seems to know the menu as well as his own kitchen. Better, probably.

He hangs up a few minutes later, and glances at Steve, “You like Ethiopian food, right?”

Steve is completely taken aback. “Uh, I’ve never... I’m sure I-“

“Kidding.” Tony says, raising a hand to stop Steve’s attempt. “I ordered pizza. Were you even listening?”

“Uh, not really?” Steve says honestly. Between his natural courteous nature to avoid eavesdropping and the speed at which Tony talks, Steve didn’t really catch a word, just the tone.

Tony just stares at him with what seems to be fondness for a second (Steve can feel himself flush), before going into the kitchen and grabbing two bottles of water.

He comes back to the sofa and hands one to Steve, who nods in thanks. He sits down right next to Steve, and each of them are aware that their thighs touching. Steve reflexively puts an arm up across the back of the sofa, and Tony leans into his side, just a little, as he hits ‘play’ on the menu. Steve feels himself relax at the contact and simultaneously feels his heart beat faster. He wants to pull Tony even closer, run his fingers through his hair and... do things he absolutely knows he shouldn’t. He forces himself to take a deep breath, and just enjoy the contact he knows he can have, rather than hurt himself even more thinking of what he can’t have.

It’s nearly half an hour later when JARVIS announces the food has arrived. Pretty soon, Steve is settled down on the couch with Tony again, with no less than seven pizzas laid out on the table in front of them. Steve recognizes the toppings, including the pineapple one he’s sure he won’t touch, but he knows even though they look similar to the pizza he used to eat, they won’t taste the same; not after seventy years. And he discovers he’s right, as he takes a bite of the pepperoni and mushroom pizza.

Texture of solid food in his mouth feels strange as he chews, and his stomach churns slightly. It’s been weeks since he’s touched solid food, but he knows Tony’s watching to see what he does. He forces himself to swallow. He can feel Tony relax slightly against him, and picks up a slice of his own; onions and pineapple. The next bite he takes goes down easier, and soon it feels almost normal.

He’s curled up next to Tony, watching a movie that somehow makes him feel more at peace than the cartoons.The knot that’s taken up residence in his chest hasn’t moved an inch. It still aches and he can still feel the exhaustion and loneliness tugging at his bones, but it’s fainter. With food and the television and Tony’s company and care, it’s easier to distract himself from it, and at the moment, he’s not quite sure how he feels.

Content.

He feels content.

\-------------------------

Steve awakes with a start, sitting up sudden and rigid. His skin feels hot and flushed, he can feel the sweat on the back of his neck and his breath is coming in gasps. He sits up, putting his feet solidly on the floor and rests his head in his shaking hands, desperately trying to calm his furiously beating heart.

Nightmares. Those are new. He’s had bad dreams, sure. But those just left him waking up slowly and feeling even lonelier. They never woke him like a electric shock, his entire body infused with a sense of dread and fear. He doesn’t remember most of it, thankfully. Just bits. Bucky falling, Peggy dying, a deep sense that he was at fault for all of it.

He tries to shake the feeling, and raises his head, taking in his surroundings. There are partially-empty pizza boxes sitting around on the table and floor in front of him, along with empty water bottles and a couple bottles of beer. It’s easy to tell the difference between his and Tony’s. Two bottles are sitting beside each other completely empty and one sits alone, mostly full. He sighs, and turns to look at Tony, still lying on the couch, sleeping hard; eyes fluttering in a dream and mouth hanging slightly open.

Steve can’t help but enjoy the realization that the empty space on the sofa along-side Tony was the space was Steve had spent the night, pressed up against the person he trusts most in the world. Even if he can’t have Tony like he wants him, he can at least have this. Steve eyes the abnormally large, plush sofa in gratitude for giving them the space to accomplish that feat.

He stops and tries to collect himself, the raw feeling the nightmare left him with is lingering, the sweat drying to his skin that still feels like it’s crawling. He feels twitchy and agitated. He wants that feeling of contentment back from last night and not this restlessness that makes the knot in his chest throb.

He gets up carefully, leaving Tony where he lies sleeping, and runs a hand through his hair in barely-suppressed frustration. He wants to go take a shower. He needs to go take a shower, let the hot water wash away the sweat from his skin and the feeling of dread his nightmares have left him with. But he remembers how his last attempt at a shower ended, standing naked and crying in front of Tony, feeling lost and helpless. That’s not something he wants to experience again. It doesn’t matter. He’s long over-due for one and he’s eventually going to have to bathe again.

He picks up the mess from the night before, throws away the pizza boxes and bottles. He carefully lays a blanket over Tony, who’s still sleeping, completely dead to the world. He doesn’t even twitch at the weight of the blanket. Steve can’t help the fond smile that he feels tugging on his lips.

He reluctantly moves back to the bathroom and turns the shower on. It’s twenty minutes later when he turns the water off, feeling stupidly proud of himself. No panic attacks, no breakdowns, no lapses into catatonia, no crying. The restlessness from before has almost completely dissipated and the knot feels... looser, maybe. Softer. He’s not sure, but he’s grateful for the change as he dries off and dresses himself in a bright red tee and jeans.

He goes back into the living room, where Tony is still sleeping like he does everything else in life, open and shameless; his limbs now stretched out and managing to take up the whole sofa by himself. Steve watches his chest rise and fall, a steady soothing rhythm, and he tries to pin down the chaos of emotions in his own chest. He’d give anything to curl back up next to Tony, but he knows better. Knows that would lead to a door he can’t open.

Instead, he moves into the kitchen and pulls out the ingredients for pancakes. He’s just starting to mix the batter when he hears the front door open, and a few seconds later, Bruce steps into the kitchen, and leans on the counter next to Steve.

“Hey, how are you doing?” he asks quietly.

Steve stops stirring for a moment, considering his answer. “I’m okay, I guess,” he says finally, resuming his mixing.

“You sure?” Bruce inquires again and Steve shrugs, words failing him. Bruce decides to help him out. “Not okay, but better than before?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, smiling faintly. “Something like that.”

“Well, that’s good.” Bruce says, and Steve shrugs again as he turns on the stove.

“I guess. I don’t know, anymore.” he admits, and he feels guilty for not having a better answer.

“It’s a long road.” Bruce says, reassuringly, “It’s okay to be confused. You’ll get there.”

Steve shoots him a grateful smile, as he starts spooning the batter into the pan, the mixture sizzling when it hits.

“So I saw Tony passed out,” Bruce says, grinning, “You guys have fun last night?”

Steve fights down the blush that spreads across his cheeks. “We watched Lord of the Rings.”

“Oh, that’s interesting, actually.” Bruce remarks, as he watching Steve carefully flip the pancakes. “Did you like it?”

Steve pauses for a moment, and nods. “It was great,” he says honestly, surprising himself as he realizes how true this is.

“You know, if you’re into that kind of thing, fantasy and stuff, there are tons of books and movies out there you’d love.” Bruce gets up and goes to the fridge, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow as he grabs a few plates out of the cupboard. “They’re actually making the movie of The Hobbit, right now.” Bruce adds, as he takes a drink, “Fantasy is a huge thing.”

Steve nods. A minute passes in silence before he sets a stack of pancakes down on a plate, handing it to Bruce who takes it with a “Thank you.”

“When... Before,” Steve starts, “I loved books, but it was hard to get your hands on them. The library didn’t have a huge collection, so I’d read the same ones over and over. Reading was one of the few things that didn’t trigger my asthma.”

Bruce tilts his head, considering, as Steve starts another pan full of pancakes. “I hadn’t noticed you reading.”

“I... haven’t been, lately.” Steve admits as he watches the bubbles on the edges of the pancakes rise.

“Why not?” Bruce asks as he sits down at the table with his plate, and Steve is amazed that Bruce doesn’t sound patronizing like so many people have when they ask about him. Bruce asks like he genuinely wants to know, and the knot in Steve’s chest loosens a little more at the thought of someone besides Tony actually caring about him, Steve, and not “Captain America.”

Steve takes his time in answering, flipping the pancakes before he speaks.“I don’t know...Didn’t know where to start. I went into a bookstore once, but it was...” He gestures vaguely with the spatula.

“Overwhelming?” Bruce supplies and Steve nods. “Well, I could give you some personal recommendations, if you want. Give you a place to start.”

“That would be great,” Steve says, feeling a genuine smile hit his face for the first time in what feels like forever. He slides another stack of pancakes off of his spatula and onto another plate.

“We should take you to a bookstore sometime and really let you go crazy.” Bruce says, grinning.

Steve’s smile turns into a humorless grin. “I don’t think that would go very well,” he answers, remembering when he tried before, and ended up feeling so lost and overwhelmed, he had left without getting anything and spent fifteen minutes fighting down a panic attack.

“I think it’d go better than you think,” Bruce says thoughtfully, “You really don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Steve stays quiet as he puts the last of the batter on the pan.

“Anyway,” Bruce says quickly, sensing Steve’s unease and moving away from the topic, “I have seen you drawing. Is that something you’re interested in? Because we’ve improved on that, too.”  
  
“I..” Steve pauses for a moment, unsure of what to say. He answers as he flips the pancakes. “I’m not very good at it, really.”

“You really are too hard on yourself, you know. I’ve seen your doodles,” Bruce admits, grinning, “If they’re any indication, you’ve definitely got some talent.”

“It was never serious or anything.” Steve argues as he finishes up the last of the pancakes and puts them on a plate.

“Doesn’t have to be serious, if it’s something you enjoy.” Bruce retorts, taking another drink of orange juice. “We all have hobbies, that’s part of what makes us who we are.”

Steve considers this as he drowns his pancakes in syrup and grabs a fork. He sits down across from Bruce and sighs. “I don’t know. It feels like that’s something I used to do... then. It feels like it’s not good enough to be part of... now.”

“If it’s part of you, Steve,” Bruce says quietly, “It’s good enough. Trust me.”

Steve blushes, but says nothing as he takes a bite of the sweet meal in front of him. He stares at the table in front of him and he can feel himself zone out. Bruce can tell, and respects his silence.

He doesn’t realize Tony’s awake until he’s suddenly in the room. Steve can’t help but jump slightly when he hears Tony say “Sweet! Food.” Steve turns his gaze towards Tony as he picks up the last plate of pancakes.

“Steve made them.” Bruce says, and Steve can hear the hint of pride in his voice and he tries not to blush again.

“Really?” Tony asks, grinning and raising his eyebrows at Steve. “You’re a keeper. If there’s bacon, it might be true love.”

“It’s not... I mean, I was just-” Steve stammers, trying not to let Tony affect him, but it’s a lost cause.

“Relax, it’s no big deal.” Tony interrupts. It’s a lie, and they all know it. Steve actively doing something like cook and eating completely on his own volition is a huge deal, but right now, they all know the kind thing to do is to play it down and let Steve be. “Ooh, blueberries,” Tony says, as he inspects his pancakes, pouring syrup on them.

He comes and sits down at the table and a beat passes before Bruce speaks up, “I have a, uh, meeting, later today.”

“With who?” Tony asks, stabbing his pancakes with his fork.

“Whom.” Steve corrects reflexively. Tony doesn’t respond, just glares at him blithely.

Bruce can’t help but grin at their interaction, “It’s a charity organization. They develop medical devices to aid undeveloped countries with their poor living conditions.”

“You’re going to apply for a position?” Steve asks between bites.

“Something like that. I was thinking I might be able to use my knowledge and expertise to do... something good. I don’t know. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.” Bruce says, smirking mirthlessly.

“That’s not stupid at all.” Tony’s tone is deadly serious, and he’s staring at Bruce with what can only be described as an intense look of pride. Steve feels a little of that pride, himself, as well as an interesting sense of relief. It’s the first solid proof anyone’s gotten that Bruce isn’t planning on packing up and leaving anytime soon.

“That’s fantastic, actually.” Steve says, giving him a small grin.

He can count on one hand how many times he’s seen Bruce blush, and this is one of them. “It’s not a big deal.” Bruce says, shrugs as he reaches for his orange juice.

“Yeah, whatever,” Tony says, his voice a mixture of dismissive and playful, “it’s fucking awesome and you know it.”

Bruce grins. “We’ll see.” He takes another bite of food and stands up, “Right now, I gotta go get my stuff together and make sure I have everything ready.”

They both wish him luck as he sets his plate in the sink and leaves.

They both eat in silence for a few minutes, before Tony knocks his ankle against Steve lightly, and Steve grins around the bite in his mouth. “So, how are you?” Tony asks.

Steve sighs and takes a drink before answering. “I’d ask why everyone keeps asking me that, but I guess I did that to myself, didn’t I?”

“No offense.” Tony says, wincing slightly.

“No, no,” Steve says quickly, and then sighs. “I’m better. Like Bruce said, not great, but better than I was.” Steve’s grin is a little shaky as he eats, and Tony knows this is all a very long way from being close to over, but still...

“You seem better,” he comments, taking another bite.

“Thanks. I’m... I’m trying,” Steve says, ripping a pancake apart with his fork absently as he speaks. “It’s not as... consuming as it was. I feel like I can breathe again, but it’s just-” he cuts himself off and exhales sharply, as though annoyed with himself.

“Just what?” Tony asks.

“I just keep thinking.” He says, quietly. “If I’m really supposed to be here. If I was supposed to die in that accident and being here is... is some cosmic mistake. And why. Why me? Why, with everyone on the planet, did it have to be me? What was the point? What if it had been someone else. What my life would’ve been like instead of... this.” Steve stands up suddenly, picking up his plate as he does. “I don’t know. Just... sticks in my head, I guess.”

Tony watches for a moment, looking at Steve clean the remains from his plate and load it into the dishwasher. He stands after a moment’s debate and moves to stand at the edge of the kitchen, closer to Steve.

He starts slowly. Cautiously. “You know, I had a, uh, a thought the other day.”

Steve turns and leans against the nearest counter. “What?”

“It’s just a thought, okay? Just an idea. I get like a billion of those every other minute and everyone’s always been good at telling me when I’ve gone too far, awesome actually at telling me when to shut up, and you can do that, too. I don’t want to make you feel like you have to do anything, cause you don’t. It’s just a suggestion, for you to think over, you know? I meant it when I said you don’t owe anyone anything. That’s true, I swear. And you need to remember that and do what you’re comfortable with, besides-”

“Tony!” Steve cuts him off, smiling with fond exasperation. “Spit it out.”

“I was thinking you might want to consider seeing a therapist.” Tony says, trying to keep his voice calm and level.

Steve’s expression doesn’t change at all. “A what?”

“A therapist.” Tony repeats. “You know, go to therapy?”

“You think I need therapy?” Steve asks, and when Tony looks back on this conversation, he’ll kick himself for missing the clear tone betrayal in Steve’s tone.

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Tony says, “but it’s not about what I think, it’s about what you think.”

“I think you lied.” Steve says, and Tony is so taken aback by this response he has to take a moment to think of a response.

“What?”

“You lied to me. You said you didn’t think I was crazy, but you do, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.” Tony can tell this conversation is heading south very quickly, but he’s unsure about how to prevent the mess from unfolding.

“Then why would you tell me I need therapy?”

“Steve, that’s not-”

“That’s not what?” Steve asks, his voice getting a hysterical edge, and Tony can definitely hear the sense of betrayal now. “That’s exactly what you’re telling me.”

“Steve, no, listen.” Tony holds his hands up in a submissive gesture, “Therapy isn’t for crazy people, well, not crazy people exclusively, I swear. Lots of people go to therapy.”

“Like who?” Steve asks harshly. His glare is hard and angry, and Tony would be relieved that Steve’s feeling better enough to react like this, except that he’s upset with Tony.

“People who have problems, who are...” Tony searches for the right word.

“Crazy.” Steve finishes for him, “Crazy and too weak to help themselves. God, I cannot believe I trusted you.”

“You can trust me, I promise.” Tony moves towards Steve, but Steve quickly backs away and puts his hands up as to push Tony away and Tony’s pretty sure no one has ever hurt him more without touching him.

“Fine,” Steve says, anger radiating from him like an aura of hostility aimed right at Tony. “Explain to me how I’m not crazy, I just need to go to a doctor so I can get a bunch of pills to fix my head.”

“Therapists don’t just give you pills,” Tony defends, “Well, some do, but not. The point is, they work with people who need help.”

“People who need help, but aren’t out of their minds?” Steve asks disbelievingly. Tony sighs, but before he can formulate an answer, Bruce steps back into the living room.

“Hey, do either one of you-” he starts to ask, but then he turns the corner and the tension is so thick, you could choke on it. “What’s going on?”

“Tony thinks I’m crazy.” Steve states, quiet and serious, an angry edge still lingers in his tone.

“No, I don’t!”

“Wait, back up, what happened?” Bruce says, confused.

“I suggested therapy.” Tony says, voice purposefully light, staring at Bruce meaningfully.

“Oh.” Bruce says, dumbly.

“Because apparently, I’m insane.” Steve finishes.

“ _Oh._ ” Bruce says, suddenly understanding.

“You’re not insane,” Tony says, desperate to make this right, to salvage the fragile trust and friendship that suddenly seems to be slipping from his grasp.

“I know that! I know I’m not crazy.” Steve says again, “I know I’m messed up, fine, but I don’t need people poking at my head, and if you think for one minute-”

“Steve.” Bruce calmly stops him. “No one said you were crazy.”

“No, I just ‘need help,” he retorts, making quotation marks with his fingers and Bruce quickly understands how fast the conversation went downhill and how.

“You know what?” Tony says suddenly, expression unreadable, “I’m just- I’m gonna go. I can’t. I can’t do this. You won’t listen to me, fine. I never said you were crazy, I never thought you were crazy. I thought you understood that, but I guess not. Bruce, do me a favor and please convince him I’m not a goddamn liar? Thanks.” And with that, Tony storms out.

A long moment of silence stretches out, and it’s Steve who breaks it.

“I’m not crazy.”

“Did he say you were?” Bruce asks, reasonably.

“No.” Steve admits, “Not outright, anyway.”

“What did he say?” Bruce asks gently.

“He said I should see a therapist.” Steve says, frustration and anger practically pouring off him in waves. “Because apparently, I’m too weak to handle this on my own so I need strangers meddling in my head trying to fix me.”

“Okay, okay.” Bruce holds his hands out, and Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “Let’s just sit down and talk for a minute and I’ll explain everything, okay? All you have to do is listen. Please, Steve.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, and then nods.

Bruce motions with a hand and they move into the living room and sit on opposite ends of the couch. Steve is still visibly upset.

“Just take a minute and breathe, okay?” Bruce says, slowly, “Tony means well, he’s just not great at explaining things.”

Steve tightens his lips, but nods. Bruce waits a minute or two to let Steve calm down a little before he talks.

“I’m guessing when you think of therapy, you think of padded room and electroshock therapy?” Bruce asks, and Steve turns a skeptical eye at him, “People in straight-jackets, that kind of thing? No one ever talking about it, acting like it was a disease? Something shameful in the family?”

Steve nods, “Basically.”

“You think that’s what Tony was suggesting for you?” Bruce questions, keeping his tone light.

“Wasn’t it?” Steve asks, and Bruce can hear the anger still residing in his tone.

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Then what did he mean?”

“Therapy...” Bruce starts, “Therapy is basically just talking.”

“Talking?” Steve asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Bruce confirms, “That’s basically it. Probably a lot like what you and Tony have been doing, anyway.”

“Just... talking. No drugs?” Steve asks, still skeptical.

“Not if you don’t want them, and I severely doubt they’d recommend them for you, anyway.”

“Well, then, what’s the point of talking to a therapist? I can talk to people here.” Steve says, looking mildly bemused.

“Yes, you can.” Bruce says, “Of course, you can. And like I said, you have been. But we’re not equipped to help you. We don’t know how you should handle what you’re going through. A therapist is trained for this, they are a neutral third party, they can help you figure things out and kind of... guide you through this.”

The silence stretches out again and Bruce sighs. “No one is calling you crazy. Mental health issues aren’t ignored like they used to be, or demonized. We’ve gotten to the point where people realize it’s okay to talk about it. And what you’re going through isn’t any kind of illness, really, anyway. A therapist can help you just get a better grip on things.”

Steve looks down at the floor, hanging his head. Bruce moves to sit on the coffee table in front of him and reaches out, taking Steve’s hands in his. “No one is going to hurt you, or judge you, or lock you away, I promise. You don’t even have to tell anyone if you don’t want to.” He lets these words settle for a moment, and then, “Therapy wasn’t actually Tony’s idea, Steve,” he admits, and Steve looks up, suddenly, slightly wary, “It was mine. Tony and I thought it would be better coming from him, since you’ve been spending so much time together. We thought you might listen to him more, and trust him, but I see now how wrong that was. We want to help you, and this was the best idea we could come up with. No one wants to see you hurting, not when there are things that could help.” Steve’s expression has morphed from anger into something wistful and sad.

“I guess I owe Tony an apology, huh?” He asks, and Bruce squeezes his hands before letting them go.

“That’s your choice, too.”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

“Can I suggest something, though?” Bruce asks, carefully.

“Sure.”

“Wait.” Bruce says, simply. “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Maybe you should take a little time apart.”

Steve looks a little lost at Bruce’s words, like he hadn’t considered such a thing before. “I don’t...” He trailed off.

“Take some time out of the tower by yourself. Go to a bookstore, art museum, whatever. Tony’ll be fine while you’re gone. I swear.”

“The last time he went down in the lab because of me, he got boozed off his ass.” Steve says, quiet and worried.

Bruce sighs, not at all surprised. “Okay, tell you what, I’ll set it up with JARVIS before I go, if Tony’s alcohol level gets too high, JARVIS will put the lab in lockdown until he sleeps it off, okay?”

Steve nods, and then, in a small attempt at levity, says, “This is the most I think I’ve ever heard you talk.” It comes across more sad than funny. Bruce does the kind thing and smiles, anyway.

“I have a lot to say if you give me the right reason.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie dokie, before we start, I would like to take a moment and explain why chapter updates are super-slow. Two reasons. 
> 
> 1) Writer's block is a bitch.  
> 2) So is nursing school. 
> 
> There are a few other miscellaneous things going on, but mainly those two things. Also, I would love to take a moment and thank everyone who's read and reviewed so far. I appreciate the feedback so much, you will never know. Seriously, thank you, guys. You've been amazing. 
> 
> Now back to the story!

Steve steps into the bookstore and lets himself take a moment to take it all in. The sign outside said Barnes and Noble, and JARVIS said it was a rather popular place to go for books. People are milling around, chatting quietly in small groups or pairs, sitting in the coffee shop, or reading through book titles on shelves. A couple of teenagers sit on the stairs leading to the second floor, flipping through magazines and looking especially bored. A little girl runs by him, showing a stuffed toy to her mom excitedly; waving it around so quickly, Steve can’t even tell what it actually is.

He expected more. Crowds. Noise. Energy. Sensory overload.

Instead, it’s... peaceful. 

The huge building is brightly lit, everything’s clean and modern, but the deep brown wooden bookshelves everywhere keep it from feeling stale and clinical. Steve expected more anxiety to assault him upon his arrival, more hesitation than this. Instead, his pulse remains quiet and steady. He wonders if it has to do with the fact this place reminds him of Tony, in its sleek efficiency and quiet brilliance. He shakes the thought. 

He wanders around a little, before going upstairs where he quickly finds the fantasy section, and for a moment he has to fight that overwhelming feeling down. He and JARVIS had made a list of books, some Bruce’s recommendations, some of them JARVIS’ of books he should try. He efficiently locates them, and puts them into the knapsack he brought.

This was his base point. He could leave right now (after paying, of course), and consider this all a wild success. 

Instead, he gets brave, picks up another book, this one bearing an odd design on the front, and reads the back. It sounds more like a horror story than a fantasy novel, and he puts it down quickly. He picks up another and scans the description. It’s good. It sounds somewhat close to what he’s already chosen, but different enough to be interesting on its own. He puts it in the bag with the others. He continues this pattern for a while, putting down many more books than he keeps and avoiding books with scantily-covered woman altogether (In his defense, several of his books center around female heroes. It’s not the woman thing, mind you, but the... lack of clothing, that has him picking others). 

He stops when he realizes he can’t fit any more books into his bag, and he can’t help but grin. He feels... accomplished. He did something. On his own. With... minimal help. This feels significant somehow, but he’s not exactly sure how yet. 

He goes back downstairs, and up to the checkout counter. He ends up standing in line behind a few teenage girls, hair pulled into perky ponytails, and shorts so short that would’ve been considered underwear in his day. They are giggling and playfully pushing at one another, talking animatedly and lost in their own world. One of them stops suddenly when she sees him, and blushes furiously, and Steve is empathetic to the red that spreads from her hairline to her ears. Blushing is something he’s always been able to relate to. She turns away and one of her friends nudges her, questioningly. He tries not to watch what happens, none of his business, really; but he sees the first girl gesture towards him, and he pretends to be absolutely enthralled with the bookmark display nearby. He can hear the sudden outburst of giggles, and when he does turn and look they’re all stealing glances and looking him up-and-down. The cashier has to speak loudly to get their attention and they check out, barely paying attention to the cashier, and doing a horribly pathetic job of not staring at him. 

Steve pretends not to notice. 

They girls run off, giggling and glancing back at him. The cashier, an older woman with a soft expression, rolls her eyes and grins at the girls’ antics as he empties his books onto the counter. She rings them up and goes to put them in a plastic bag, when Steve asks if he could just put them back in his knapsack. The cashier agrees, and begins handing them back to him. He closes the bag when he’s got them all back, and pulls out his wallet. He tries not to balk (but he does), when she announces the total. He hands her the card and takes his receipt, walking away, trying to justify in his mind spending so much money in one go. 

He sticks the receipt in his pocket and walks over to the coffee-shop. He stares at the menu, at names of drinks he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even be able to pronounce correctly, let alone identify what they actually are. 

Tony would know. 

He shoves the thought aside and sighs as he realizes how right Bruce was. Time apart would be good for them. 

He orders a plain, black coffee, one of the few things he actually knows on the menu, and sits down at a table in the corner. He pours a sugar packet into the cup and stirs it slowly, looking around at the people around him. A woman sits at a table with two young children, both of which have chocolate smeared on their hands and faces from the brownies that are almost decimated in front of them. He grins slightly at the mother sliding the new books off the table quickly and putting them back into the bag before they’re ruined. 

He continues to stir his coffee as he glances around and sees a young pair of people barely in their twenties. They’re sitting on the same side of the table, obviously a couple, reading out of the same book. They’re laughing quietly, as they both point out lines, and smiling privately as they quietly read out loud to one another. Their love is obvious, and Steve wonders if he should be more surprised they’re both women, but he can almost see the joy radiating off of them, and he kind of forgets to be. 

He carefully takes a sip of his drink as he spots a small group of guys, sitting almost directly in the middle of the shop. They’re loud and boisterous, cracking rude jokes, and making fun of one another. Steve doesn’t think much of them at first, but he can’t help but glare when he notices them point at the young female couple and whisper. They don’t do anything, just chuckle amongst themselves and stare rudely. Steve decides if any of them tries or says anything, he’ll put a stop to it (and when did it become okay for men to be complete bastards to women?), but there’s really no reason to cause a scene at the moment. 

Finally, he spots an elderly couple, a man and a woman, sitting in another corner of the shop. They are smiling and talking, low and quiet, hands linked across the table, and something in Steve knows this isn’t the first time they’ve been here. He’s probably seeing part of a routine, just a piece of the lives these two people have shared for longer than most of the other people in the coffee shop have even been alive. 

Steve is genuinely surprised when he realizes that he’s insanely and blindingly jealous of them. It takes him a moment of staring at his coffee to realize why. 

That was supposed to be him and Peggy. 

That’s what he was supposed to have, after the war had ended and everything had calmed down. 

Maybe not that exactly, but the idea. A life shared with another person, standing by someone, until you’re both old and grey and never forgetting why you love them. Routines, inside jokes, memories, all of it. He was supposed to have that. 

The knot that he’s been successfully distracting himself from all morning is back in full force and he takes a long drink of his coffee, trying to burn it away with hot coffee. It doesn’t work, but it was worth a try. 

He takes a pen out of his pocket and starts doodling on the napkin in front of him, swirls and lines with no real meaning, just a distraction for his hands as he lets his mind wandered. 

His mind replayed through moments of Peggy, her smile, her voice, hearing her laugh. The future he thought they would eventually have together. He remembers the exact shade of lipstick she wore, the way she looked at him and it felt like she really saw him and not the national icon that he represented. He remembers how his stomach dropped in all the best ways whenever she got close. How he’d do anything to make her smile. He remembers. 

From there, his mind wanders to Bucky. He lost Bucky before he crashed, but the wounds were still fresh then, and they feel completely new now, mixed with the loss of everything else. How do you go from spending so much of your life with someone, to barely remembering what life was like without them, to being completely separated forever? Bucky was there for him, every inconsequential day that passed with nothing happening, to every single huge moment that Steve would remember forever. His best memories of his childhood and his worst all had Bucky. 

And now he’s gone, and Steve’s here. In this loud, insane, flashy world, with five people he’s told are his new team, his new responsibility. It felt crazy to rely on them during the Chitauri attack, and afterwards, he wondered how six people who had virtually nothing in common would ever be able to make any kind of coherent unit. Instead, they ended up friends, and, like Tony had pointed out, and he was shocked to realize, his new team somehow morphed into his new family. 

Tony. Steve could feel his face heat up just thinking about Tony. The one piece of this world that had truly and completely caught him off-guard. Howard’s son. He’d thought Tony would be more like his old friend, but aside from a few basic things, he couldn’t have been more wrong. Howard was more open, less guarded, but he knew Tony had reasons for pulling away. Betrayals of his past hanging over him, and making him cautious. Tony was louder, brasher, cruder. Steve didn’t know what to think of him sometimes, when he made lewd comments or seemingly rude jokes, because as quickly as he could snap with a comeback, he was also one of the most selfless and giving people Steve had ever met. It made him wonder how much of Tony’s personality was self-defense. 

He wished he had handled Tony differently that morning. He shouldn’t have thrown accusations and assumed the worst. He should’ve listened. The guilt mixes with the throb of the knot in his chest and he shuts his eyes, trying to force himself to breathe. 

The thing that caught him off-guard about Tony the most, though... He thought he’d buried those feelings back in his teens. Taught himself how to not notice attractive men, or let himself think... inappropriate things. He didn’t have a problem with men being affectionate with one another, and he knows that now, men can be with one another and it’s accepted, mostly. He knows that. But that was something he never let himself have, and he’s not sure how to reverse those feelings now. Not sure how he could let himself feel that way. 

And even if he did, there’s no way Tony feels the same. There’s no way that Tony Stark, ladies-man-extraordinaire, would ever even consider something like that. It’s stupid, and it’s dangerous and he wants to punch himself for letting his stomach drop like it did with Peggy every time Tony got close. He knows better. 

He looks down at the napkin he’s been doodling on, and somehow he’s not surprised to see a sketchy, incomplete drawing of Peggy. His mind, even when focusing on the present, keeps sliding back to the past. His chest aches, low and dull as he folds the napkin up and sticks in the front pocket of his knapsack. He doesn’t know what to do. 

He glances up, away from his now-cold drink and realizes almost everyone he had seen before has gone. Too wrapped up in his own head to notice. The only familiar ones left are the lesbian couple quietly reading together. 

Steve sighs, wishes things were different. Easier. Wishes he had someone to talk to. He knows he has the team, and he has Tony, but it’s hard to talk to Tony about Tony, at least in the way that he wants to. 

Suddenly his mind reverts back to talking to Bruce about therapy. His words reverberate. Someone just to talk to. Someone neutral, a third party, whom he could really talk to and say what he wants to say without worrying about it affecting the team. He sees the wisdom in that solution, how good it sounds to have someone he could confide in. How something so simple could help so much right now. 

He glances at his watch and realizes he’s been out of the Tower all afternoon. Probably time to go back. 

He stands up, picks up his bag and digs a few dollar bills out of his pocket. He sticks them in the glass jar on the counter on the way out, keeping his head down and trying not to be noticed. Which is impossible, but it makes him feel better to at least try. He slings his bag over his shoulder and steps out onto the busy street.

\---------

He gets back to the Tower, and goes up to his floor. He steps off the elevator and he’s surprised to see Natasha sitting quietly on his sofa, curled up at one end, reading a book. He stops, and can’t help kind of staring at her for a second. She’s barefoot, wearing a purple tank top and thin black sweatpants and she looks so comfortable, he’s a little envious. 

“Welcome home.” She says, evenly, eyes never straying from her book. Steve feels a grins tug at the corners of his mouth a little. He can’t help it. Everyone tells him he should be scared of her, terribly intimidated, at the very least; and he’s seen plenty of evidence of many people’s fear of her (with the obvious exception of Clint). He completely respects her, how could he not? He knows of her abilities, knows what she’s capable of when properly motivated, and he wouldn’t do anything to get on her bad side. But fear just... never came up in her presence. Instead, in a bizarre way, her presence was steadying to him in a way no one else’s was. In some ways, she reminded him a lot of Peggy. 

“Thanks,” he says, softly, moving past her to his room. He stands for a moment, considering. Part of him desperately wants to go and find Tony, and apologize and beg for forgiveness; but rationally, he knows more time apart would be a good thing. One day isn’t a crazy amount of time and he should be able to be apart from Tony for that long without feeling... twitchy.

Finally, after a long moment, he makes a decision. He takes the books out of his knapsack and carefully lines them up on his dresser. There’s too many for the dresser-top so he leaves the few that remain on his desk. Steve’s breath catches in his chest for just second when he abruptly realizes they’re now the only things in the room that would imply this is Steve’s room and not some random guest room. He didn’t really realize how far away he was keeping himself from the world around him, and how he might have been hurting himself without realizing it.

He randomly picks a book off the top of the pile and goes back into the living room where Natasha is still reading in complete silence. He pathetically attempts to read the title of her book as he sits down on the other end of the sofa, but recognizes Russian when he sees it. She idly turns a page. 

He opens his book and flips to the start of the first chapter. As he’s trying to read, he can sense her presence next to him, even if he can only see her out of the corner of his eye. He focuses on his book, but can’t help the way his entire body relaxes, like he’s found a buoy in a turbulent ocean he didn’t really realize was there. The ache in his chest mellows, just a little, and he sighs. Neither one of them speak, both continue reading in complete silence. 

A few minutes later, he feels her foot gently press up against the side of his leg. He glances over to see Natasha hasn’t really moved, just stretched her leg out towards him, given him a simple point of contact; and he wonders if anyone told her about that. If Bruce somehow noticed his quirk for physical affection or if Natasha just knew, like she just knew so many other things no one would suspect. He doesn’t know, but it’s good. A surge of affection wells up in his chest and he would love to wrap his arms around her and hug her close, but he knows his personality, not hers. That’s not how she does things, and he respects that. He simply puts a hand on her ankle in acknowledgement, and goes back to reading his book. 

Somewhere, amongst the hours they sat in their silence, Steve realizes that this- just sitting with Natasha, neither speaking, just... being near one another- this quiet time together was significant for them. It was Natasha’s way of reaching out, offering companionship, without pushing or asking anything of him. 

Steve can’t understand why anyone would fear this magnificent woman beside him. 

\---------

It’s late when Steve sets his book down on the coffee table and wishes Natasha good night. She finally looks at him and grins faintly, wishing him the same with a nod and he leaves her alone to finish her book. 

He gets ready for bed and as he curls up under the covers alone, he realizes how badly he wants Tony there beside him. How dark the room looks without the arc-reactor. He sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. 

“JARVIS.” He says this feeling slightly stupid. 

“Yes, Captain?” 

“How’s Tony doing?” he asks, hesitantly. 

“Sir is fine.” JARVIS says, and Steve would be damned if he didn’t swear JARVIS sounded like he was trying to reassure him. “Sir has not made incredibly wise decisions regarding his nutritional requirements today, however his blood alcohol level is not significant, and he poses no threat to his own safety.”

“He’s okay?” Steve asks. 

“Yes. He’s okay.” JARVIS confirms. Steve sighs. One night. He could go one night without Tony. No one was in danger. Everyone was okay. Steve stomped down the lonely feeling inside of himself at the feel of a bed without Tony in it. He should be able to do this. He shouldn’t have to rely on Tony to be there every single moment of the day. He thanks JARVIS, who assures him he will alert Steve to any significant changes in Tony’s condition. 

It’s a long time before Steve falls asleep trying to figure out if the ache in his chest is coming from missing Peggy and Bucky... 

or Tony.


	10. Chapter Ten

At some unspecified point in his life, Tony had heard somewhere, from someone, that it took about three weeks to make a habit, but a hell of a lot longer to _break_ the habit. Tony’s not sure if he buys into that line of thought--after all, being a genius should count for something, but then, being a genius with _no_ self-preservation probably counts against it--but he’s beginning to realize that spending time with Steve Rogers has become something of a habit. And now that Steve Rogers is nowhere to be found, Tony’s having to go cold-turkey.

Which explains why it’s 2 AM in the morning, and Tony is buried in his labs, classic rock music blasting away as he putters and tools about and does his best to focus on _anything_ other than thoughts of a certain super soldier and the words they had exchanged less than a day ago. Tony’s doing his best not to wonder what Steve is up to, and he certainly won’t ask JARVIS, but he knows that these questions are always lingering at the back of his head.

Plus, he’s tired. Apparently spending time with Steve is not the only habit he’s gotten into--he misses the presence of that very comfortable bed, almost as much as he missed the feeling of Steve curled up next to him in it.

It’s been a long day. Tony wearily glances at the holographic display that he’s been trying to focus on for the past half-hour, and almost isn’t surprised to see the green and red lines beginning to blur. “JARVIS?”

“Sir?”

“Process these schematics, would you? I’m gonna take a power-nap. Wake me up when you’ve determined their compatibility with the prototypes I designed earlier.”

“Certainly, sir. It should only take an hour.”

Tony wearily leans over and rests his head against the work table. It’s not his bed, and there’s no company but his AI, and as much as he likes JARVIS, nothing quite can take the place of Steve’s deep, even breathing. Feeling more miserable than he had felt all day, Tony nods off into sleep.

\---

Tony wakes up to the ‘clink’ of a cup being set down against the surface of his work-table. When he opens his eyes, he discovers it was set down right in front of his face, which is also on the surface of the work-table. He takes a moment and stares at the side of the white mug, and faintly remembers falling asleep while waiting on JARVIS to process some schematics. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he raises his head and stretches his arms up over his head. He feels his back pop in several places and he groans at the sudden relief.

As he lowers his arms, he opens his eyes, and sees Steve leaning against the table, his own brown mug in his hands.

“Good morning.” Steve greets, grinning.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Tony mutters as he takes a slow drink of the gratifyingly hot coffee in front of him. Even in his bleary state, he can see that Steve isn’t mad at him any more, and he won’t deny he’s delighted and relieved. The anxiety had been a constant whisper in the back of his mind as he worked, no matter what he tried to do to kill it. “What time is it?” he asks.

“10:45am.” Steve states, matter-of-factly, setting his own cup down. Tony narrows his eyes.

“JARVIS,” he says, threateningly.

“Yes, sir?”

“You told me those schematics would only take an hour.”

“That is correct.”

“That was at two this morning.”

“That is also correct.”

“So, how am I just waking up now at almost eleven?”

“I didn’t have the heart to wake you, sir.” The AI responds, with what sounds like mock-reproach.

“JARVIS, you smart-ass.” Tony says smirking. He knows JARVIS intentionally let him sleep, and he’s as annoyed as he is endeared. JARVIS, despite what other may say, is one of the best people he knows. He lets his gaze come back to Steve, who’s grinning from ear-to-ear. He fights down the butterflies in his stomach at seeing Steve genuinely happy, and takes another drink of his coffee.

\---

Steve can’t help but enjoy observing Tony and JARVIS banter. Everyone likes JARVIS, and they all have managed to accept his almost-humanity, to one degree or another, but no one is as wholly comfortable with him as Tony is, and it’s fun to watch.

“So,” Tony starts, setting his coffee cup down, and looking up at Steve, “How are you?”

“I’m...” Steve pauses, looking for the right word, a little unsure what to say, “getting there.”

Tony nods, and if Steve didn’t know better, he’d swear Tony moved like he was going to reach out and touch Steve, but held back. “You were okay, yesterday?”

“Yeah, Bruce and I talked for a while,” Steve says, “And then I went to a bookstore out on Fifth.”

“Really?” Tony says, eyebrows raising. Steve can tell Tony understands how big of a step that was for him, and he nods in response.

“I got about fifteen books, I don’t know, I didn’t specifically count.” he shrugs and takes long sip of his coffee.

“No... panic issues?” Tony asks, and Steve knows why Tony sounds so hesitant, almost scared to ask.

“No, I was fine,” he reassures Tony, but moving on before Tony can talk again. “Listen, I talked to Bruce, and he explained a lot and I just wanted to apologi-”

“Ah!” Tony interrupts, raising a hand in Steve’s direction, “No apologies in the lab. They make Dum-E cry.”

“Tony, seriously.” Steve starts again, feeling his face flush in shame, “I shouldn’t have-”

“Have you ever seen a robot with no eyes cry? I’ll admit it’s entertaining, but it’s pretty pathetic at the same time...”

“I just want-”

“Listen,” Tony cuts him off again, but this time his tone is more serious. “Both of us made mistakes yesterday that we wish we could re-do. Agreed?”

Steve nods, “Agreed.”

“So let’s just let it go and move on.” Tony says, waving his hand in a vague-ish gesture and downing the rest of his coffee.

“Okay.” Steve agrees.

“So, did you decide anything after talking our team counselor?” Tony asks, “And let’s try to ignore the irony of that little title, shall we?”

Steve grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I did.”

“And?” Tony prompts.

Steve starts to speak, and stops. He’s not exactly sure what to say. “I don’t think I can do this by myself,” he admits after a long moment of silence, the ache in his chest throbbing in time to his heart beat and a small shiver of sadness makes his skin crawl. “I think being able to talk to someone without worrying about how it would affect the team or what my team-mates think of me, might go a long way.”

“It might not.” Tony points out. “You might try it and hate it. It’s not for everyone.”

Steve nods. He knows there’s always a chance of things failing, and he’s glad Tony’s being honest enough to admit that, and not sugar-coating anything to patronize him or give him false hope. “Yeah, but if I don’t at least try, what else do I have?"

“You have me.” Tony states, and Steve can’t help but laugh at little at himself, because yeah, he’s got Tony but not like he wants at all. “You have the team, your friends. And if this doesn’t work, then we find you something that does.”

Steve gives a small rueful smile and nods.

Tony continues on. “I don’t want you to agree to something you don’t want, just because other people think it’s a good idea. That would just defeat the purpose, ya know?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers. “I know, but it makes sense, and I’m open to anything that even has a _chance_ of helping right now.”

“So that would be a ‘yes’ to the therapy, then?” Tony asks, gently.

“That’s a ‘yes.’”

Tony looks pleased and Steve doesn’t want to admit how happy that makes him. He’s making this choice for himself, not to get Tony’s approval, he reminds himself. Even if Tony hated the idea, he would still do it. Bruce said it was something they decided to talk to Steve about, so Bruce still would’ve talked to him about it, even without Tony.

Steve knows it really would be enough for Tony to let it all go right now and never mention the whole fight again. But Steve can’t help what he has to say. He knows it’ll itch under his skin under he finally gets it out, so he just says it. “I really am sorry, though.”

“Yeah, me, too,” comes Tony’s quiet reply, and if his expression is anything to go by, Tony’s as surprised by his own words as Steve is.

Steve can tell when it’s time to change the subject and this is it. He coughs, and Tony runs his hand through his hair, before getting up and bringing up a complex display of wiring on the holographic terminal nearby.

“I have a question,” Steve says, watching Tony’s fingers deftly moving over the display, quick and precise in their movements. He knows his question is stupid, but it’s been bugging him ever since the bookstore.

“Shoot.” Tony replies.

“I thought no one recognized me outside of my uniform,” Steve tells him, his face scrunching up in uncertainty.

Tony stops, and turns to Steve, his expression serious. “They don’t. They shouldn’t, anyway. Why, did something happen yesterday?”

Steve instantly regrets even bringing such a trivial thing up. “Not really. There were just a few people at the bookstore yesterday acting a little weird. I figured they must’ve recognized me, but then I thought that was impossible.”

“It is. Aside from myself, thanks to my public announcement, all of the Avengers are anonymous to the general public. No names or pictures have ever been released. Safety and all that jazz.”

“Oh.” Steve doesn’t really understand, but okay.

“Who acted weird?” Tony asked, turning back to the display, rotating it and inspecting it closely.

“Uh, the girls in front of me at the register,” he says, feeling slightly stupid. He knew SHIELD would never reveal his personal information, but then that leaves him with no explanation for why those girls acted the way they did.

“How were they weird?” Tony asks, smirking slightly, raising an eyebrow. He’s already getting a good idea of where this is going.

“They kept staring at me and giggling.” Steve says, bemused, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it was weird. They’d look me up and down and just start giggling. My best guess was that they recognized me somehow.”

Tony’s face lights up, and Steve knows that was not a good sign. If it makes Tony’s face light up with glee, there’s _at least_ an 80% chance it’s not a good thing. “Oh, Steve, you are just _adorable_.”

Steve feels his face instantly flush, and he glares at Tony’s patronizing tone. “Tony,” he growls, his tone a warning.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Tony asks, smiling fondly at Steve.

“See _what_?” Steve demands. He hates when people make him feel like he’s missing something.

“Steve, they weren’t giggling over ‘ _Captain America; National Icon_ ,’” Tony says, making quotation marks in the air, “They were giggling over _Steve Rogers; Undeniable Hottie_.”

“What?” Steve asks, stunned.

“Yeah,” Tony confirms, “I’m willing to bet that was just a group of girls in poor control of their hormones.”

“I... but they...” Steve stammers, face burning hot. “I’m not-”

“Yeah,” Tony says, “You are, actually.”

And Steve stops. Every muscle in his body freeze and he looks, really _looks_ at Tony. There’s something in the way he’s looking at Steve right now, something bright and fond and unidentifiable, and he just said Steve was... and together with the almost-desperate want that’s been aching in his chest for weeks that he’s been trying to suffocate, he can’t help it. He’s not thinking about the teenage girls anymore. His thoughts are focused entirely on Tony, and he shouldn’t... but he _wants_...  

He leans forward and presses his lips to Tony’s.

\---

Tony’s a scientist. His entire life is based around facts, statistics, and probabilities. He observes the data, makes theories, tests them, and then uses the results to formulate the best plan, deciding whether it’s calculating what materials he should use, or figuring out the best wiring configuration. It’s as ingrained into his mind as how to tie his shoelaces. It’s a part of his personality. Before he does anything, he weighs risks, and calculates possible results. It’s gotten him very far in life.

And Tony’s 99.99% sure if Steve had casually strolled into his lab and stabbed him in the foot, the shock of it wouldn’t even come close to how he’s feeling right now.

It’s awkward, and tense, and their lips don’t match up quite right and Steve’s pressing too hard, his obvious inexperience shining through, and isn’t that just marvelous. It’s better, a lot better, (holy _shit_ , is it better), when Tony puts his hands on Steve’s jaw and pulls him away, just enough to soften the kiss, Steve moaning softly as his hands come up to grip at the sides of Tony’s t-shirt.

It’s slow, and soft, and basically everything Tony expected kissing Steve would be like, and so different from most of the kisses Tony has received in his life. Steve’s magnificient at following Tony’s lead, his hands moving down, to slide under Tony’s t-shirt and touch the skin at his sides. Tony’s pretty sure he’s found Heaven. At least, until he opens his mouth, trying to deepen the kiss, and Steve suddenly lets go. He jumps back like he’s been electrically shocked, and okay, Tony pushed too fast. Simple enough problem to fix. Except that when he steps towards Steve and goes to say as much, Steve is practically running out of the lab.

What the hell?

He stands stock-still. Don’t get him wrong, he’s gotten less than enthusiastic responses before. Alcohol makes bad decisions sound great, and he’s gotten every reaction from being slapped in the face to them simply not kissing him back. This, however, is the first time someone has ever _run away_.   
  
Figures it’d be Steve.

It takes another full minute for him to gain enough sense to realize he should probably go talk to Steve.

“JARVIS, where’d he go?”

“Captain Rogers is currently on his own floor.”

“Great. At least he’s still in the building.” Tony sighs.

It’s only a few moments before Tony’s stepping off the elevator and into the living room he spends more time in than his own now. Steve is sitting on the far end of his sofa, hand gliding swiftly over the sketchpad in front of him. Tony suddenly notices the stack of sketchbooks and drawing supplies laid out on the coffee table. As he gets closer and sits down next to Steve (close, but not touching), he sees a note lying next to the stack that he recognizes as Bruce’s handwriting.

_“It’s good enough. I promise.”_

Tony’s not even going to pretend he understands what that’s about. He watches as Steve draw  what can only be a portrait of Peggy.

“She’s beautiful,” Tony comments, because it’s true. Steve’s done her justice, making her lips full and eyes bright. He can see why Steve was smitten with her.  

“She was.” Steve agrees quietly, hand still going over lines and shading in minute details carefully. His talent is obvious and elegant, and Tony’s just a little enamored with it

As much as Tony wants to know what the hell just happened, he’s not stupid enough to think that pressing the issue will help either of them. He can tell that Steve has retreated to a place, both physically and mentally, where he feels comfortable, so he’s going to respect that. “Tell me about her,” Tony prompts, trying not to sound demanding. He suddenly wants to know more about this stunning woman from Steve’s past.

“You’ve heard me talk about her, Tony.” Steve says, careful and unsure; and yeah, that’s true, he’s heard a little bit about her, but...

“I’ve heard you _mention_ her, big difference,” Tony argues and Steve gives a small shrug in acknowledgment. “C’mon. What was she like when you met her?”

Tony sees the smile form on Steve’s face as he remembers. “She punched a corpsman in the face.”

Whoa. Now that’s a helluva first impression. “Nice. Did she have a reason or just...?”

“Yeah, we had just gotten there at the camp, and he was just being a jerk. He made fun of her accent, and then he was just plain old disrespectful, not acknowledging her authority, so she... clocked him right in the jaw. Knocked him to the ground.”

“And you were in love,” Tony teased, watching the blush spread across his cheeks.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Steve nods.

“I didn’t know she even had an accent.”

“English. I loved it.”

“I’m starting to think there wasn’t a lot about her you didn’t love.” Tony says, and he suddenly starts regretting the direction of the conversation. Maybe right now isn’t the best time to discuss old loves.

“There wasn’t.” Steve says, but he doesn’t sound upset at discussing Peggy. He sounds fond and nostalgic. “You know she shot at me once?”

Tony can’t help but laugh at that. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why. I musta done something that really made her angry, and, uh, when they gave me the shield, I asked her what she thought of it. She picked up a gun and fired it at me, quite a few times. The shield deflected them, but it was uh, intense.”

“You mean ‘scary.’”

“That, too,” Steve admits, laughing a little.

Tony can see why Steve would love this woman, all fire and spunk. Steve looks happy and relaxed and Tony would do anything to see him this comfortable all the time. “She sounds like she was an amazing woman.”

Steve nods, as he artfully writes Peggy’s name across the bottom of the picture.

Tony has to snap his attention back to the issue at hand. He has followed Steve down here for a reason.

“So...” Tony says, faux-casual, and he sees Steve tense up, not at all fooled. “Wanna tell me what that was about just now?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, quietly, not looking away from the paper, leaving Tony startled. An apology isn’t what he expected. At all. Steve just keeps throwing curveballs.

“Uh, what?” Tony asks, and didn’t that just sound brilliant. He mentally kicks himself.

“I’m sorry.” Steve repeats, this time a little louder, and Tony’s still too floored to stop him as he continues. “I shouldn’t have been so forward, it was inappropriate of me; especially since I know you’re not... interested."

“Excuse you, I was _very_ interested. Still _am_ interested.” Tony says, only a little offended. How the fuck did Steve miss Tony trying to put his tongue in his mouth? How much more interested in a kiss can you get? Tony may not have been alive in the 40’s but he’s pretty sure trying to stick your tongue in someone’s mouth was a clear indicator of interest back then, too.

Steve finally stops drawing and turns to stare at Tony, dumbfounded. “But... You’re not- I mean, I didn’t think you were, uh, you know-”

“Gay?” Tony asks, and Steve nods, blushing furiously. “Truth time, Cap, I bat for both teams.” He makes sure he says it easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, because _it is_ , and he wants to make sure Steve gets that.

Tony can see the exact moment comprehension clicks in Steve’s head, and he hears the soft ‘ _oh_ ’ that goes with it. Still...

“But... you’re always with women. Aren’t you?” Steve argues, feebly.

“Easier for the tabloids.” Tony explains. “I didn’t want to have to put up with any kind of gay rumors on top of everything else, so when it comes to quick, dirty fun, I stick with women.”

Steve nods slowly, “I see.”

“Besides, let’s be honest. If anyone here is obligated to be straight, I believe it’s the Golden Boy of America over here.” Tony quips, playfully, trying to bring a little levity into the situation.

Steve gives a small rueful laugh, “Uh, no. Definitely not straight.”

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess from the picture in your lap and that... kiss, you’re playing for both teams, too?” This is feeling like a dream, and Tony almost wants to pinch himself. There’s no way he’s this fucking lucky.

Steve nods, face burning bright red, and _god_ , if he gets any more adorable, Tony is going to lose all ability to function. Not even fair.

“Can I just...” Tony starts to speak, because this is driving him crazy, “I was all over you up there. How did you get ‘inappropriate’ and ‘not interested’ out of that?”

Steve winces, “Well, because...” He stops and looks at Tony, really looks at him and Tony can see the moment when Steve realizes and understands just how stupid his conclusion was. “I’m... not really sure, actually,” he admits, sheepishly, with a contrite little grin. “I... I don’t have much experience with all of this, kissing and... things. Barely any with women and absolutely none with guys. I just. Panicked.”

“ _None_ with guys?” Tony asks, a little tense. He’s Steve’s first guy?

“I’ve... noticed guys before. That part’s not new.” And Tony really appreciated how calm Steve is keeping himself, despite the fact he’s blushing hard enough to make Tony’s face ache in sympathy. “But back then, it wasn’t something you acted on like that. I guess that’s why I just... flipped my wig with you.”

“I get it.” Tony says, grinning, just a little. Steve is kind of a dork with his goofy 40’s slang, and maybe that shouldn’t attract Tony as much as it does, but he’s okay with it. He watches as Steve carefully runs his fingers over the drawing in his lap.

“I gotta ask, though, was that a spur-of-the-moment thing, or...?” Tony needs to know. He needs to know if Steve’s thought about them the way Tony has, or if it was just part of Steve’s current emotional upheaval. Some kind of misplaced affection from spending too much time together, or misguided gratitude to Tony for trying to help him. He refuses to push Steve, won’t try to influence him, but he needs to know, for both of their sakes. He tries to keep his heart from beating out of his chest as Steve answers.

“No.” Steve says looking at Tony with a small, almost indulgent, grin, “Been thinking about doing that for a long time.”

“How long?”

“Months.”

And it’s in that moment, Tony loses it. The words he’d given up on ever hearing just came out of Steve’s mouth and Tony barely gets out a ‘ _me, too_ ’ before he’s pulling the drawing out of Steve’s lap and putting himself there instead. He’s got one knee on either side of Steve’s hips, his hands on either side of his neck and Steve’s huge hands sliding up his back.

Their lips meet easily this time, both of them prepared for the contact, Steve moaning softly and pulling Tony closer. Tony goes with it, happy as hell to be able to give Steve whatever he wants. He nips at Steve’s lower lip and tries to remember how to breathe as Steve take the time to suck a hickey on his neck. He’s pretty sure no one’s given him a hickey since high school and somehow that makes it more perfect than it already was. When Steve decides he’s done and moves back up to his mouth, he lingers a fraction of an inch away, almost touching but not quite, the damn tease. But then he smiles, just a small flash of pure joy, and his mouth is back on Tony’s.

And this time, when he opens his mouth, Steve is right there with him.


	11. Chapter Eleven

“Okay, okay,” Tony says, breaking the kiss and pulling back away from Steve reluctantly. “We need to- to stop that, like, now,” he says breathlessly, moving from his position over Steve to sit back down next to him, ignoring the hands on his hips that try to tug him back but then relent, letting him go and taking a deep breath, “Or we’re both gonna get really, _really_ carried away.”

“And that would be a bad thing?” Steve asks, equally out of breath, and God, Tony thinks to himself, moving back a little to take it all in, isn't  _that_ a satisfying sight to see. Steve Rogers, lips slick with spit, swollen and red; skin flushed with heat, his hair a wreck and his normally wrinkle-free shirt all rucked up, inches of beautiful, smooth skin showing around his waist.  

Tony takes a deep breath, runs his fingers through his hair and tries to remember exactly why he decided to _climb off Steve._ Ah, yes.

“Let’s be real,” Tony says. “That was good. That was goddamn _phenomenal_ , and I would give up a kidney to strip you naked right now and continue...”

“But?” Steve prompts, and Tony isn’t sure if he’s still flushed from before or if this is a new blush. Steve’s tugging his shirt back down, and licking his lips. “What’s stopping you?”

“Is that really what you need right now? On top of everything else?” Tony asks, and he’s trying to be the good guy here, he really is, but he’s losing his point fast and he needs Steve to agree with him, or they’ll both be naked and he’ll be choking on Steve’s cock in less than two minutes. “I don’t, I’m not trying to say you’re weak or pathetic, we’ve had that argument, you know that’s not true. But... is this a good idea for you, right now? Your first serious relationship and the first _anything_ with a guy?”

Steve looks disappointed, but nods. “That’s a good point, actually.”

“Okay.” Tony’s heartbeat is almost back to normal.

“Can I just...?” Steve asks, hesitantly, moving towards Tony and stopping.

“Anything, always.” Tony says this honestly, because he knows he _can_ say that. He can give Steve that trust, that kind of freedom and it’ll be okay.

Steve proves him right, too. Of course he’s right, he’s always right. He leans forward and presses his lips to Tony’s. It’s just a peck, a soft press of lips on lips, short and sweet and Tony raises an eyebrow when Steve pulls back, blushing. “I just like knowing I can do that,” he explains.

Tony can’t help the grin that breaks over his face. “You can, you know. I didn’t say ‘no,’ I said ‘ _not yet._ ’ You can still kiss me.”

“No, no,” Steve says, putting a hand on the back of the sofa and turning towards Tony, “I agree, it’s... better to wait, on everything. I mean, I just finished having a complete breakdown and I just agreed to go to therapy. Not a great time to start dating.” And oh god, Tony just realized that’s what they’d be doing--dating.

 _Dating._ Like teenagers. Like boyfriend/girlf- well, boyfriends, with dates and dinner and... he should probably be panicking more than he is right now. But that sounds... good, actually. That sounds a _lot_ better than his previous encounters in this area. His mind’s still wrapped up in the entire sweet dating notion when Steve speaks again.

“I guess I kinda need to be able to stand on my own two feet before I sweep someone off theirs.” And it’s lame, and cheesy, and Tony really wants to crack a joke, because, _come on._ But it’s sweet and so fucking sincere, all his replies and snappy comebacks die in his throat. How could someone this beautiful and wonderful want him?

“Uh,” he forces out, and clears his throat, looking around for any change of subject. His eyes lands on a rough sketch, obviously an experimental piece, but somehow he immediately knows who he’s looking at.

“That’s Bucky, isn’t it?” he asks, and Steve picks up the sketch and holds it in his lap. A young man, in Army uniform, grinning faintly and looking off the the left.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I was practicing earlier, different pencils and things. It’s not very good.”

And yeah, Tony can see where it needs a lot of work, and you can tell where Steve switched pencils and experimented, but you can also see the care put into it and the skill throughout it and it’s so obvious this was someone he cared about, Tony finds himself vaguely jealous. Wonders to himself  if Steve would draw him like that.

“It’s fantastic.” Tony says honestly.

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you had your tongue down my throat five minutes ago.” Steve says, and then looks mildly surprised at himself for saying it. Tony’s almost too busy laughing to notice.

“Oh Steve, there’s hope to corrupt you, yet.” He says, still laughing and Steve fights back a grin, leaning back into the sofa. He doesn’t look particularly opposed to the idea.

“So,” Tony says, getting himself under control. “Does drawing help?” He asks, not sure what answer he’s expecting.

“It’s weird,” Steve says, picking up a pencil and slowly starting working on the sketch in front of him.

“It’s drawing. Third-graders do it.” Tony says, and Steve shakes his head.

“Not the actual drawing,” he says, scrunching up his face. A beat passes. “I tried drawing you guys, the Avengers, earlier,” he says, low, like a confession. “It didn’t... it didn’t work. It felt... forced, somehow. So I tried drawing Bucky and Peggy and my team-mates and it just snapped. It worked. And that means something, but I don’t know what.”

“You miss them.” Tony says, like it’s obvious, but Steve looks unconvinced.

“I told Bruce that I didn’t draw anymore, because it felt like something I was, not something I am now. And it’s hard, because I’m drawing people that are... they’re gone. They’ve been gone for years, and I have to remember they died. Not me. I feel like I should be a totally different person than I was and I’m not. I’m just... I don’t know how to let go.”

Tony nods, back into the familiar position of not knowing what to do. He gingerly curls up next to Steve, and watches him draw.

“You know,” Tony says after a few minutes of comfortable silence, “In movies and shit, main characters are always visiting graves of people they’ve lost, saying good-bye and everything. I guess it’s supposed to help, I don’t know. Never really worked for me, but that’s me. Wanna give it a shot?”

“With who, Bucky?” Steve asks.

“And Peggy.” Tony clarifies. It’s the best he’s got right now. He sure as fuck isn’t gonna say ‘Howard.’

“Um, well.” Steve says slowly, almost cautiously, “Bucky was killed in action, so there wasn’t a body to bury. He didn’t have any family to set up any kind of memorial, either.”

“Oh.”

“And Peggy.” Steve says, and he heaves a deep sigh, staring at his drawing hard enough to burn holes in it. “She, uh... she’s not dead.”

Tony barely stops his jaw from literally dropping.  “Repeat that,” he says, completely dumbfounded.

“Yeah. She’s still alive.” That old familiar blush is creeping its way up Steve’s neck, and Tony vaguely wonders if blushing so persistently could cause some kind of permanent skin damage.

“Why haven’t you said anything? Have you seen her?” Tony asks, still stunned.

“No,” Steve says softly.

“What, why not?”

“Tony,” Steve says sadly, still not looking at him, “She thinks I’m dead. She moved on, she lived her life. She’s retired. What good would it do to just go upset her now? It would cause more problems than it would solve.”

“But she’s seen Captain America in the news. Everyone has.” Tony points out.

“And she’ll assume they managed to replicate the serum or created a new one. She wouldn’t have any reason to even consider it might be me. And that’s good.” He says this with a definitive nod. “I know she’s not gone, but in her world, _I am_. It needs to stay that way.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, lets the silence take over again. He should’ve known. He should’ve done more research before saying anything. But now it’s too late and Steve’s got that sad face again, the one he’s worn too many times in the past few weeks, the one that Tony wishes he could blast away with a repulsor.

“Wanna watch cartoons?” he asks instead, half-serious, half-joking, and Steve side-eyes him like he’s crazy, but Tony sees the corners of his mouth quirk up ever so slightly.

“No, thanks. Seen enough to last another lifetime.” Steve puts an arm around Tony and pulls him closer, and Tony goes with it, because they were doing this kind of thing before and he knows how much physical contact means to Steve and because, fuck it, he can.

Suddenly, it hits him like a brick to the head. The solution.

“Go put on shoes,” he says, trying not to look too smug, pulling away, and taking the drawing out of Steve’s lap.

“What, why?” Steve asks curiously, already getting up to comply.

“I have an idea.” Tony says, “You’ve got nowhere to be today, right?”

“Not that I know of. Why? What are we doing?” Steve stops before stepping into the bedroom, awaiting Tony’s reply.

“Roadtrip. Shoes. Now. Please.” Tony says, with a bright grin, feeling more like a genius than he has in weeks.

===============

It’s a long drive, almost four hours with traffic, and Steve hasn’t spoken much the whole way there. They stopped at a diner to eat a couple hours back, and not once did Steve ask where they were headed, acting instead like he already knew, and Tony has to admit, he wouldn’t doubt for a second that Steve figured it out.

They finally pull into the parking lot, just one car among many erratically parked around, and he sees Steve get out of the car, staring. Even as he closes his car door, he doesn’t take his eyes off the of the Washington Monument. Tony gets out and walks around the car, leaning up against it near Steve.

“So, we’re in D.C.” Steve says, dryly, and he finally turns to look at Tony. “Not that I’m complaining, but how is visiting the Washington Monument supposed to help?”

“It’s not.” Tony says simply, and Steve cocks his head, just enough to remind Tony of a puppy and he tries not to grin. This is serious. “C’mon.”

He starts to walk away and tugs on Steve’s wrist, who falls into step beside him. It’s a few minutes before Tony sees Steve’s jaw drop as they enter into the National WWII Memorial, a huge circular plaza, lined with granite pillars, each holding a wreath. The center of the plaza is a giant pool of water, lined with small fountains.

“What is this place?” Steve asks. His voice is quiet with awe, and Tony already knows this was a good idea. Despite the small crowds milling around, even Tony had to admit, the place held a certain aura of power that demanded respect, even if you didn’t know why.

“It’s the National World War II Memorial.” Tony replies smoothly, and he sees the moment it clicks in Steve’s head, comprehension dawning as to why Tony brought him here. “It’s not as... personal,” Tony admits, “but I thought-”

“Holy shit,” Steve interrupts, eyes wide. “I can’t even-”

“Yeah.” Tony grins, relaxing a little, and gently pushes Steve’s arm. “Go on, explore. I know you want to.”

Tony stands back a bit, tries to give Steve a little space as he slowly moves around the plaza. He asks questions, occasionally, when the whole thing was built, what the pillars represent. Tony answers what he can from what he knows, but eventually uses his phone to Google the finer points. Steve stares a long while at the war scenes on the plaza walls, taking in details without speaking: scenes of soldiers getting physical exams, being issued gear, scenes of soldiers in combat, and burying their dead, and scenes of soldiers coming home to their families. Steve seemed quiet and subdued and the longer they stay, the more anxious Tony gets about the whole thing.

_Maybe it’s just making it worse._

When they get to Freedom Wall, Tony can see it coming.

“What does it mean?” Steve asks, voice eerily quiet.

“Uh. Four thousand stars.” Tony says, remembering what he read on his phone as Steve had studied the scenes earlier. “Each one represents a hundred soldiers that died.” He sees Steve’s eyes scan the words _“Here We Mark The Price of Freedom”_ on the granite in front of the display. It’s an overwhelming feeling for Tony to take in the full force and magnitude of the Wall, and he wasn’t even there. He’s not a bit surprised when he glances over at Steve and sees that he looks about three seconds away from breaking down into tears. He doesn’t say anything, just takes Steve’s hand in his own and squeezes.

“What do I do?” Steve asks, not taking his eyes off the stars in front of him. “How do I possibly...”

Tony’s not sure what Steve means, Steve looks like he’s not sure either, and he lets go of Tony’s hand, walking away. Tony lets him go and doesn’t follow. He wants to give Steve space, let him sort things out on his own.

He watches as Steve wanders around slowly. He doesn’t really read anything, just seems to wander aimlessly, before stopping in front of a large, plain granite pillar, off to the side and almost inconspicuous in its deliberate plainness. Its matching mate sits across the plaza. It has a plaque on it, unlike its mate, eye-level to most, and Tony watches as Steve reads the words and promptly bursts out laughing.

It’s loud and inappropriate and so... not Steve. Tony quickly walks over, as Steve’s  doubling over laughing, almost hysterically, one hand on his stomach, the other bracing himself against the pillar.

“What’s so funny?” Tony asks, trying not to sound concerns and failing. What the hell could Steve find at a War Memorial that he would openly laugh at?

Steve doesn’t answer, just points to the plaque, falling into fresh peals of uproarious laughter when he looks at it again. Tony steps forward and reads in perfect flowing, script.

 

“ _In Honor of Steven Grant Rogers._  


_For Exceptional and Outstanding Service and Sacrifice in the United States Military._

  
_July 4, 1918 - November 18, 1943_ ”

 

“How...how did you make sure I’d see it?” Steve asks, wiping moisture from his eyes on the back of his hands, and still chuckling to himself.

“I didn’t know it was here,” Tony tells him, and he can’t remember the last time he said something more true. He doesn’t remember anyone ever mentioning this before, pretty sure the Wikipedia article never made a notation of it. Which makes sense, really. How many people ever even noticed it? Assuming it was just a pillar, never taking the time to read it, and then not understanding it when they did. Why would people care about a random honor to a random soldier? Steve does a double-take between Tony and the plaque.

“Wait, really?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Tony says, slowly, and he can’t help but grin sheepishly. “Guess this really didn’t help, did it?”

“No,” Steve says, grinning crookedly at the plaque, “In a weird, twisted way, I think it did.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, holy crap. Eleven chapters. Over... four months now. My longest fic to date, and we're not done yet. We've still got the epilogue, and at some point, the sequel. 
> 
> Right now, I just want to thank everyone's who been reading this, reviewing this, subscribing to it and leaving me kudos. The encouragement has meant a lot to me. Thanks for sticking around through a rough start, erratic updates and a three week hiatus while I wrote Bruce/Darcy fics. You guys are the greatest.
> 
> I also REALLY want to thank Holliswrites, my friend and beta-reader. If it wasn't for her cheerleading, encouragement, support and general awesomeness, this fic would've been abandoned chapters ago. If you like this fic, thank her. I owe her a lot.


	12. Chapter Twelve

“You sure you’re ready to do this?” 

“Tony, it’s time. I can’t hide forever.”

“Yeah, I get that, but you don’t have to tell everyone everything.”

“I’m not going to tell them everything. Just... the important bits.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to tell them. I’m not saying you can’t or you shouldn’t, but it’s your life, and it’s up to you what you say and what you don’t-”

“Tony.”

“It’s no one’s business but yours. There’s no reason to involve them unless you want to and I just think-”

“Tony!”

“What?”

“I want to talk about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, yeah... If I don’t- if I hide this- no matter what reasons I put behind it; what kind of leader am I - what kind of team-mate would I be? If I keep something like this hidden, and act like it never happened?”

“A normal one?”

“Tony. You said there was no shame in therapy.”

“There’s not.” 

“Then why is talking about it such a big deal? They already know something’s going on. They aren’t blind, deaf or stupid. Wouldn’t it be best for me to address it, be open and assure everyone I’m acknowledging the problem and I’m working on it?

“Jesus. You’re so reasonable and logical, it’s making me a little ill. I’m just sayin’.”

“I’m doing what’s best for me, and I’m doing what’s best for the team.”

“We’re more than just ‘your team,’ you know...”

“My friends, then. I’m doing what’s best for everyone.”

“Okay.”

“It’s okay, Tony. I get you’re worried, and I know I’ve given you every reason to be. But it’s... it’s better. It’s not gone, I’m not… magically cured or anything stupid like that, but I’ve got the best grip on this I’m going to have for a long time. I know that. It’s time to take the next rational step. One that doesn’t involve excessive sleep and cheesy cartoons.” 

“Excuse you, those cartoons were awesome.”

…

“Yeah, okay, some of them might have been...”

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, well, if you’re doing this, now’d be the time.”

“Movie night on Clint’s floor?”

“Yup.”

\-----------

“And so now, that things are... better, I’m gonna... go to therapy and see if that helps.” Steve concludes, glancing up from the counter-top he’s been staring at since he starting explaining. Everyone’s looking at him, but not with the pity or disgust he was expecting. All of them, Thor, Pepper, Natasha, and Clint are looking somewhere between understanding and proud, and isn’t that a kick in head?

Bruce and Tony stand over to the side, where they initially went when Steve asked them to come to the kitchen so he could talk to them. They already knew what Steve was going to say, so they kept to the side. The rest of the Avengers (plus Pepper, because they’d all be fucked without her), sit at the table, having listened carefully to everything Steve explained. 

Steve had been right, too. He really didn’t tell them everything. He didn’t tell them about the panic attack, or the catatonic shower. He didn’t tell them about Tony getting drunk or his silence that eventually broke. He didn’t talk about the fight about therapy, or his tentative relationship with Tony. But he told them the important parts. How the depression had sunk in on him, how it felt like it would never get better, how Tony and Bruce has spent a lot of time talking to him and helping him figure this out and how he appreciated how they had all supported him. 

He apologized for being a selfish sub-par leader and he ended with therapy because he knew that, if any part of this was going to get a reaction, it was that.

Instead, he’s greeted with what he should have been expecting, in retrospect. The unwavering support of his new-found family. Pepper is the first to break the silence, standing up and walking over to pull Steve into a hug. He gladly go with it, Pepper gives awesome hugs. He lays his head against her shoulder and sighs. He can’t help but be reminded of his mom, and the sweet maternal hugs she always gave him. It’s a nice reminder, and it makes his chest warm instead of tight and painful.. 

“Have you picked out a therapist?” Pepper asks, pulling away and framing his face in her hands, her voice somewhere between sympathetic and professional. 

“Uh, not even sure how I’m gonna do that, actually.” Steve admits. He had asked JARVIS how many psychiatrists there were in New York City and balked at the answer. He was kind of hoping someone might pitch in an idea, and judging by the way Pepper’s picking up her phone and tapping away, she was the one.

“I know the best people in the city for this kind of thing, I’ll send you their files so you can read about them and pick the one that sounds most comfortable.” Steve smiles in relief as she steps away, still tapping as she goes into the living room. He notices how Tony watches her go with a look of bright fondness.

Thor’s next to speak. His tone, as usual, suggests that human customs, once again, slipped from his grasp. “I fail to see how this would make you a less than honorable leader. In Asgaard, facing these kinds of trials made a good warrior greater. Great loss in battle was cause for mourn, but it brought no shame.”

“Well, I...” Steve finds himself kind of speechless, and he doesn’t miss how Tony looks like he’s trying desperately not to laugh. 

Thor approaches Steve and claps him on the shoulder so hard, a lesser man would’ve fallen against the counter. “We will stay alongside you, Captain, no matter where the journey takes us.” 

Steve can help but grin faintly, and nods, “Thank you.”

Thor nods, solemn and serious, before he steps into the living room. 

Clint sighs and slowly stands from his chair and heads towards the fridge. “You know, Cap, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed.” 

Steve can’t help but feel his eyebrows raise. 

“I figured it’d take something more than this to make you whine like a little bitch with a skinned knee.” Clint finishes, pulling two beers out of the fridge, handing one to Bruce and popping the top off his own. 

Steve is completely at a loss for words at his teammate’s seemingly callous behavior. He really thought they all supported him on this, but maybe he was wrong. He can tell by Tony and Bruce’s expressions, he’s not alone in this assumption.

Clint takes a swig of his beer and walks towards the living room, but right before he leaves, he turns and points at Steve with the hand still holding the beer. “Word of advice.” He says, and Steve can help but brace himself for what Clint might say next. “Don’t go to a SHIELD licensed therapist, okay?” 

Steve gives him a questioning look. Clint gives kind of a sigh/shrug and continues, “I went to one of those guys after the whole Loki thing, ya know? And he was, how shall I say…” Clint raises his hand to make the international gesture for ‘crazy’ near his temple. “Not a good thing when you think your shrink’s crazier than you are.” 

Steve grins a little and nods, as Clint raises his bottle, nods at Steve and steps into the living room, followed by Bruce. He gets it now. Clint wasn’t trying to trivialize Steve’s situation or purposefully be a bastard, he was dealing with it the same way he dealt with everything else; it isn’t a big deal if you don’t treat it like one. It may not have been a hug or a vow of loyalty, but from Clint, it was as good as. 

Natasha is still sitting at the table, completely stone-faced, staring at Steve. A silence falls over the kitchen and he’s not sure if it’s better described as tense or awkward. Natasha has always been an anchor for him, and he knows as stupid as it sounds, he wants her support on this, perhaps more than anyone else’s (besides Tony). 

She carefully stands up, and walks over to him, looking slightly up so they’re as face-to-face as they can get, with something unreadable in her expression, as usual. 

Steve is more than a little surprised when she puts her hands on the back of his neck and pulls him down, just far enough to kiss him on the forehead and lean it against her own. The momentary shock wears off, and he closes his eyes, as he puts his hands over hers. In another life, he’d be in love with this woman. 

After a moment, she pulls away, and says something softly in Russian. Steve’s not even going to pretend he has any idea what she’s saying, but her expression is softer than he’s ever seen it, and her thumbs brush against the skin below his ears. 

She lets go and pats his arm, not saying anything else and goes to join the rest of the group in the living room.

A beat of silence passes. Steve doesn’t move. 

“So, that went better than you expected, huh?” Tony asks, coming to stand in front of Steve, who still looks a little dazed at the whole ordeal. 

“I expected more… something, I don’t know. Drama, I guess?” He says, hesitantly, pulling Tony close and burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

“You underestimated your family, Steve.” Tony says in a mock-stern tone, wrapping his arms around him, and feeling Steve sigh. 

“I really did, didn’t I?” Steve says, voice muffled slightly, but not caring in the least.

“You did, and because of that, you’re on popcorn duty.” He says, and laughs when he feels Steve groan. 

“Fine, but I’m burning yours.” Steve says pulling away, but Tony catches him before he completely disentangles himself. 

“You’d never.” He says, pulling Steve back to kiss him softly. He feels Steve press back and grin into the kiss and he never knew what a wonderful feeling that could be. To feel someone else’s happiness like that. Especially after all they’d been through.

“I’d always.” Steve retorts, breaking the kiss. He goes to lean in for another, but they’re interrupted by Clint’s shout from the living room.

“If you two pansy-ass bitches don’t hurry up and get in here, we’re gonna start it without you!” 

Tony laughs as Steve just shakes his head and moves towards the cabinet with the bowls. “You go ahead, I’ll be in there in a minute.”

“Okay.” Tony agrees, but doesn’t move. 

Steve reaches up to get the bowls and pulls them down, separating them out. He’s pulling the popcorn out of the cabinet when he speaks again. “Seriously, Tony. Stop staring at my ass and go to the living room.”

“Ooh, bossy. I like it.” Tony says, in a mock seductive tone that makes Steve laugh, not at all ashamed he got caught. 

“Just go.” 

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” He says, but he can’t help it, he slaps Steve’s ass on his way by. Half because, well, it’s a glorious ass and he can, and half just to hear the indigent little shriek it startles out of Steve. 

What can he say? He really loves his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're done. It's been four months and it's finished. Again, I want to thank everyone for reading, reviewing, kudos-ing subscribing, and downloading. I want to thank my beta for being the most awesome person ever. This fic never would've made it to the end without her. 
> 
> Once again, I want to remind everyone that there will be a more Tony-centric sequel, and it should be posted in the next month, probably. 
> 
> This has been an incredible journey. One I never thought I could accomplish. My longest fic before this was... 3k words? This definitely blew that out of the water. I didn't think I'd be so sad to finish it.


End file.
